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Out of The Strong Came Forth Sweetness.
In Frimley Park the Founders’ Oak
Is ancient of days.
A quercus of nature to live so long.
As oaks go and grow
It is vertically challenged.
Its massive limbs reach out
Horizontally,
Parallel to the parkscape,
Held up by will-to-live power
And some earth drawn energy
Known only to venerable trees.
One such branch had snapped
And given in to gravity.
The broken stump had bone cut back
Below skin level by the tree surgeon,
Ragged flesh trimmed and left to heal.
As I walked the dogs
And passed within a dozen yards,
Oak spoke
In silent consonants
From knurled burl and gnarled knot
And in the bilabial murmurings of bees.
Around the scar two smooth grey lips
Of bark had formed
To slowly seal the orifice,
But still there issued
A flow that would not be staunched,
A stream of wild bees
Foraging for nectar.
Fungus had caused within the oak
A womb of decay,
But just as icewine is mellifluous
From the noble Riesling rot,
So too is sweetness from this honey pot.
Arthur Bennett Shaman1@xtra.co.nz
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