Michael Wormald

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The Best Poem Of Michael Wormald

A Heart Of Oak

Walk the wooden stair, smooth beneath your feet,
Warm the wood beneath with your tender touch.
Walk the plank fulfill a destiny with your final step,
Warm the bed, the boards and my heart of Oak.

Once a brave man, strong in arms and mind, a growing sapling strong,
True in heart, the wind could never bow or break; giving support to ventures kind,
But in the forest saw every banner pulled down by thick thorns of greed,
Lost all accept my sword; bared in anger, still gripped to protect my heart of Oak.

Twisted thorny branches; like temptations whips, Poison Ivy lives so long,
Just like its host the Tree, whose life is much longer than the man?
Longer than the evil in the thorn which pricks and scars much deeper than its barb?
Pluck the weeds, rip down the creeping ivy, and blunt the thorns to grow true my heart of Oak

I slam the door, how low in my own esteem? I lost my pride and shut the door of Oak
My love in tears, I banished from my sight and shuttered the windowpane.
Around and round the wooden house; slipping on the wooden step
I cried tears of salt upon the varnished stair; I cried in terror and burned up another heart of Oak.

Now I walk the wooden floors running round this house of wood alone,
Bolstered by beams of naked lumber steeped in time.
Rings knotted flat against my palm, smoothed by instants past;
Golden, bronzed and russet groves flow; I am alone whilst time burned up another heart of Oak

Around and around this wooden box, rolling like a barrel I broke my sword and bent my back.
I drank its wine; felt the numbing spirit soaked in every crack.
In darkness weeping with claw and hammer I secured the tack and shut the door,
And threw the match which spurred flame which drowned in fear another burning heart of Oak.

I can feel the splinters in my hands of every door I have cut and planed.
Stepping through to another corridor; sheathed in plain box pine, a paneled wall like a simple coffin lid,
Stops my walking, but still warm are the cut rings of past and present smooth beneath my back.
No woman my sight could ever bare; bar the door with heavy beams and burn up another heart of Oak.

I can feel the splinters in my hands of every door I ripped and pried apart.
Layers of sap wood fragrant with the past; straight grained pale heartwood steering to the future.
A house, a barrel, a coffin or a big blue box of toys; all their kind would leave me there.
I just to walk the corridor straight; renew, regenerate; then leave behind another burnt up heart of Oak.

One day came an angel with sword in hand, she knocked upon the door
In my eyes blue, reflected the golden rings in brown, as I lay upon the shining wooden floor.
New light reflected glowing auburn, bronze and brown; along the lines of time I race, my face hot to the gate.
My hand on the portal's bar felt cold, too late, still locked; my fate burned up another heart of Oak.

An arrow drawn across my heart on bark caught there, and as the shaft were withdrawn,
So my tempter's white hand tugged me through crumpling bark and briar bare.
Tore me from the wood so dense, to fall upon the twisted roots of time exposed undressed of earth,
Once the arm's of a lover's seat; or a childhood shrine to two souls lost in a game of hide and seek.
Roots entwining; snaking in the ground then raising, up to support the mighty head above the burning heart of Oak.
by Michael John Wormald

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