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Majestic Stumps
The wet dew grass coils around my ankles,
the fog sets over my eyes,
and the grey granite mountains’
mournful song
wafts through the haze,
into my ears.
I sit at the base of the mountain,
gazing at the green-tipped trees
cast over the rock
like a drab curtain,
shielding tears.
What are you hiding?
What was once majestic, towering,
is now a sad stump,
weighed down to Earth
by slumbering sadness,
old soil and
forlorn trees.
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