The Orestan Oak

we pass it, the dogs and I, every day

as they strain leashed down the steep hill

scrambling to reach their place to shit,

then cock their scent into its roots,

which radiate deep, rise and coil

eye-browed above turned soil and tarmac.

I wait stopped, follow the sculpture -

 branches splintering the dawn sky,

brittle arms yearning, stretching far,

tips spanning both road and time,

its memories stored in each ring

of flesh that’s been slowly layered;

its planting by the Armada’s First Lord,

sleek hansoms wheeling to the Manor,

sweated farmhands breaking at the Plough,

the outrageous Teddy trouping past

clearing the way for Gwen to pursue her love,

Barnes Wallis wondering “will it bounce?”,

travellers pitching permanent their camps,

the discrete weight of couples carving

their names into its crustaceous bark

(more recently marred by the words

“suck my dick” over a fading image

poorly graffitied of an ejaculating penis;

the testosteronic work of growing boys) -

and wonder why it holds, stills my eye;

It binds in simple knots earth to sky,

beneath my touch its tremors tuned

to the rhythm of the universal heart.

into its song I too am subsumed.