***Inspired by the daily prompt at http://www.napowrimo.net with apologies to – in order of appearance – Hardy, Yeats, Frost, Blake, Frost (again), Poe, Mansfield, and Wordsworth.
Moving alone, bare-browed
Bring me to the blasted oak
Thereafter I sat me against a tree.
My mother taught me underneath a tree,
“Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak.”
Thy soul shall find itself alone.
It is always there, singing most silently.
I sit upon this old grey stone and dream my time away.