|From Little Acorns Grow
Aye, me mateys, they done me wrong.
Cast off me here, for a doubloon’s song.
Left me to waste away, but for to die.
No part of me strong, so’s I can still vie.
For this old liver, she is good as gone.
So many years of ale drunk, so strong.
Years of plunder still somehow lost.
This old body, now, bears the cost.
Me eyes grow dim, me breath grows short.
The stench of death comes up me throat.
Me beard is white and sorely unkempt.
Me mateys left me with great contempt.
So in this faraway forest I am cast.
Meager provisions that will not last.
I wander through the day and night,
Only birds and animals hear me plight.
The days grow short, and they grow cold.
I wander lost in the deep forest's fold.
No food to eat, no teeth to chew.
I grow weak for what to do.
Bitter acorns swallowed whole,
Become the repast for me soul.
I fear that I will soon die.
Must find a place where I can lie.
This hollow swale in the shade.
At the edge of forest's glade.
A shelter from the wind's harsh blow.
Me bones hark the pending snow.
No heat have I from wrenching gut.
I beg for death from wind's sharp cut.
The snow comes to fill the sky,
To cover me warm before I die.
Warm at last, me body cast in blanket of pure white.
I see the days through crystal ice, dark and light.
This pirate past rests at last, while the Aurora glows,
Where only the wizard of the wood now knows.
Each season must pass, and so winter, alas,
Gives way to spring’s warmth--losing grasp,
Melting the ice that bound me lair so fair.
Exposed am I, once again, to the warm, fresh air.
Ravens come to feed their young; peck me till I'm raw.
Beetles and worms find me out and to me insides crawl.
A lonely acorn in me gut germinates with infinite trust.
That it will be strong enough to grow to light with thrust.
Through me rotting belly come.
A single leaf to reach the sun.
And from me awful stinking gore,
The baby tree feeds to reach a fore.
So when the summer wanes as planned,
Me sapling’s grown and made a stand.
To face its first winter's pall,
Me give that tree me very all.
Strong it grew in that favored swale.
Nurtured by me good guts of ale.
Roots that intertwined me very bones.
Anchored against all mighty tones.
Slowly climbing to the sky,
Against all odds in me forest lie.
To reach for the canopy far above,
Graced by sun, wind, and rain’s love.
Years rolled in, rolled out, rolled by.
Me tree reached up and touched the high.
Hurricanes and blizzards tore at me limbs,
But none could destroy except me sins.
Eagles nested top most and squirrels played,
Graced me branches like none before made.
Me canopy grew wide and coveted more,
As one by one, me rivals fell before.
Aye, me mateys through wind and storm,
Terrible lightning strikes that mean me harm.
Through all of these and more I cried.
Me tree stood tall and never lied.
Years turned to decades and decades to time.
Me oak by the glade staid, stood sublime.
Stood guard over me bones like noble gentry.
Stood guard over me soul, ever so gently.
What's that I hear? The grunt of a boar?
Oh, no, it's louder and the ground it be tore.
And the clanking of chains, has He come, at last?
The Devil can't get me, to this tree I'm bound fast.
And what is that buzzing? So close to me ear?
A million bees chewing the trunk I hold dear?
Me anchor is shaking like in a banshee gale.
Hang on for dear life, me hearties, be hale.
A mighty quiver, shivers me bones.
As if on a precipice, me soul finely hones.
With a mighty "Crack! " like the cannonball's strike
Me load, it is lifted and flies out of sight.
With a mighty crash, me main mast is gone.
Silence a moment, as the sun flows on down.
The banshees are cutting, with that wailing sound.
The beast in me innards is flailing around.
The clanking grows closer and the boar roars.
I fear for me life as nearer He grows.
With a great wrenching; I'm torn from me swale.
Never have I ever felt such strength so hale.
"Wait! There are bones! Stop digging now!"
There's silence so mellow that it’s almost hollow.
They're tickling me now with brushes and feathers.
Don't they know that it’s me bone that it bothers?
They treated me bad and took me safe place.
Me oak anchor is gone, left but a root’s trace.
At least it is quiet and warm here in this space.
Methinks I have nothing left to fear or face.
"Look Daddy! His bones are wrapped in the root!
I know he's a pirate cause he had a knife in his boot!
Look at that silver sword and scabbard he wore.
Those Spanish doubloons make him a pirate for sure!"
Read War's End, the Novel
Copyright 2004 © Ronald W. Hull