The Guardian


Withered, the old tree poses
An angular projection in the night
Cupping stars in flailing tendrils
Sweeping away the clouds
Lost and alone on a distant hill
A silent sentinel
Guardian of a world already lost
He awaits his time with dignity
Knowing even bark must peel
And branches break
Everything rots, fades, falls
Perhaps the coming storm will end him
Or the next
It matters not, he’s seen enough
As an owl hoots
And a fox barks at the moon
His hilltop as it should be
A guardian’s work done

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7 thoughts on “The Guardian

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