There comes a point in time in the life of a
brave old oak
when its cloak
gives way,
bit by bit,
to wind, to rain, to age, to the
inevitable pull of
seasons.

When its much loved array
of green and gold
leaves it, forever,
to the nakedness of
cold.

When its acorns, once full of
anticipated joys, of life,
of potential, of
infinity,
are entirely gone.

When even its very last cherished leaf,
the one to which it finally
clings with all its might,
takes flight.

Then the voices in the winds wuther:
‘Call yourself an oak?
Where’s your cloak?’
‘Where are your acorns?’
‘You’re a joke.’

And so the old oak stands,
vulnerable and grey,
lashed by storms
and frost and even
heavy with snow.

And hopes.