The rot has sapped the
supple tree’s strength,
So graindrops shower, and hearts wood splinters,
As the axeman swings to end its winters,
Broken bracken echoes, the caws of the crows,
And, in the act of falling,
The Ash, takes its final boughs,
The Woodsman cuts, sneds and carts,
Along well sodden paths,
To stack and to shed,
The stored sunlight shafts,
Though green, it burns clean,
When kindled spirits alight,
Flickering and lickering,
To tease out the bright,
Beginning to roar,
It wind-sucks the air,
Bellowing deep hearted sunshine,
From summers long passed,
Red and inflamed,
It sears the pan and the hearth,
Heartening and warming,
The care-worn man’s soles,
Looking deep in the range,
The last sparks wink a sign,
To remember the embers,
When spread on the bed,
Ash turns to ashes,
Inspiring spring growth,
The colours of flames,
Given birth from the earth.
