Stood Oak. Ancient Strong

Beneath the green and mossy canopy,

where sunlight filtered, gold on leaf,

stood Oak. Ancient, strong, his roots deep,

watching forest secrets drift to slumber.

His gnarled roots, a woven grip,

on earth where tales unfolded

in the rustling sigh of the wind

that stirred his high, old branches.

The Druids came, in white flowing robes,

seeking power in the dimming light,

their low chants, a gentle murmur,

around his thick, moss-covered base.

He observed the fox, its coat of red,

the shy deer that cautiously approached,

the hawk circling in the high air,

his ancient presence holding silent knowledge.

Through summer's heat and winter's cold grip,

he remained steadfast on the rise,

a guardian spirit, reaching tall,

a quiet observer of the woods.

The young tree grew in his shadow,

the old stones where words were spoken,

the changing seasons, quick then slow,

all found their reflection in his limbs.

And as the moon, a silver shimmer,

spread shadows through the forest's quiet dream,

old Oak kept watch, unwavering and true,

while the wild wood rested under the night sky.