Our Lady Of The Oaks Poem by Michael Walker

The sunlight glistens on the greenest glade,
The dew of gold glows on each blade of grass,
In the garden gladdened by the shade,
Beneath a sky of blue, like crystal glass.

The breeze breathes through the eucalyptus leaves,
And moss adorns the north of stump and stone.
These streams flow from the seas' primeval eves
To quench the earth whence flowers forth flesh and bone.

Now, turkeys scuttle through the underbrush,
As russet mares prance down the hillock's crest,
But where this verdant valley rolls most lush,
The hush amidst the rushes bids us rest.

Our Lady of the Oaks waits day and night,
As mists weave round the redwood pines and vines,
Until her fallen sons' sights reach the Light,
With Whom her lustrous white, like bright wine shines.

The names of soldiers' souls may fade from brass,
Yet from her heart, their faces never pass.