AshInto the bark it seepsinto the sap: the rot, the dread, the dieback The old ash sentinel of the fields vigorous in its seedings Trembles in this chill wind feels the future cold in the heartwood The fungi which nurture it, feed it now turn destroyer: feed on its ringed flesh I turn chill, too. My companion always strong, always present: (My namesake of the woods) knows now the relentless sickness While I grow old they will die as together we cling, root thick, to the rich earth By then who knows what greater catastrophe will have enveloped us both in the final fate |