To an Island People
I live on an island but this could be to anyone whose land, purpose or mind is occupied. Reading answers from the land.
The Oak is bare, but the circle is open, We must build a fire for those that are coming. You wish harm to the venal, but the sun will rise, Truth is lurking, lithe, not able to be denied, Who will judge us if we try? The dormant Oak, still holds our space, We ride the back of the whipped dog, disgraced. We urge it: ‘bite the master’, but its head won’t rise. Yet, somewhere in these islands, buried treasures still abide, Even as we whimper and whine. The Oak is bare, but it cannot lie, What appeals to truth still qualify? Wearied by corruption, you reject the invitation, Somehow still enchanted by a promise of connection, Bending branches to the sun. The Oak still stands and can endure, The flimsy whims of those that obscure, And only sense poison where our roots still stray, Resistance would diminish if we followed their way, those blunted blades with faithless aims. The Oak is bare, and the winter long, and the power of words seem no longer your own. Mirrored worlds of occupiers see treachery in all, Still Autumn leaves and ruses can’t help but fall, All agreements are yours alone. The Oak is bare yet what more can we want? Whilst still we deny its purpose and strength. The rooks don’t decry its lingering presence, But when seasons turn cold, here we freeze in defiance, Mistaking stillness for silence. Who now reads this stuff anymore? The Oak is still bare, and it’s hard to be sure, The watchers confuse you, seem tired and unclear, But under the surface, their binds domineer. Return to power draws near. The Oak is bare, but something is stirring, I’m building a fire for the real world returning. I’m standing here trying to make some sense of it all, Clearing a space for a tower to fall, For light to flood in and ask nothing more.