An old oak branch caught my eye,
A twisted bough, curled up and dry.
Left in the field there to rot,
A piece of wood – nearly forgot.
Home for minutiae hidden inside,
Beatles and worms in tunneling hides.
Topside bleached by sun and air
Lowermost stained from resting there.
Just a part of a natural scene
Living, dying – its’ ending foreseen.
In twenty years, should I come back,
And walk alone on this cul-de-sac.
That old oak branch will always be
There in spirit on this trail with me.
