| Like the
tentacles of an insect, it stretches its crooked arms. Age old feelers swaying in the wind, he stretches out as to catch the showers of rain. Once he was adorned by the foliage of his crest; now nakedly staring across the farm. Many seasons have come to pass; he remembers lightning, strike in vain. A little boy played beneath him, now wrinkled and gray; old. Like his empty branches, the old man’s head is shinning; bald. He dug his toes deep and deeper into the soil; beneath his weight does not fall. With the unwanted green guest rapt around his waist; his life was ending with haste. Little hooks dig into it’s trunk, strangling him at a delayed pace; squeezing his waist. No room to breath, as the enemy’s grip tightens; no mouth for help to call. The same restrictions do not apply to man. It is his pride that prevents him from shouting out, “HELP!” Towering above all that surround him the ancient is standing firm, still. Termites are boring through its core, like cancer-cells their reign against his will. Fading… slowly; until, one day – he’ll be no more. No more purpose, not being a bench or chair; two parasites, destroying his core An old man came walking to his childhood tree, a cane to balance his weight. For a moment he stood and watched the ancient, studying every branch. “Our days have become to long my friend, it’s a long time since you shaded my play.” The old man said this with a croaking voice as tears filled up his eyes. “They are taking this farm, the bank or who ever of them get to it first.” The old man walked closer, leaned against the tree as he rested his old bones. “The days have become hotter, rain stayed away longer; no crops to pay the loans.” The old tree heard every word, understood it too. No mouth to comfort his friend; his brittle wood arms, to fragile to reach out. He wondered if there was merit… for this man, God to sue. The questions turns in the ancient, over-and-over; where shave he been all these years? “The wife has passed on, the kids grown up; sadly, too proud to tend a farm. The fields lay empty under the scorching sun, the cattle has been moved to another farm. Nothing’s left, the house is rusting; the van won’t start. You remember Sam, the dog, we came here once; he’s dead, found him in the barn.” together they were at last after many years has gone past a man and a tree staring the same fate death by imposing threat in the frail shade the bald and brittle met their end no shadow or wisdom left for the world to lend |
| By : Thys Groesbeek |