THE THREE OAKS

There are three ancient oaks,

That grow near to each other.

They lift their branches

High as beckoning

With outstretched arms,

For some one to come and stand

Under the canopy of their leaves.

Once long ago I remember

As I lay in the very centre,

Between them:

A rotten branch suddenly fell

Near to me.

I will not go back to those oaks:

Their branches are too black for my liking.