Mighty Oak Poem by Kevin Eaglesfield

He's so old, old doesn't mean anything.
He just is.
And He touches inside my head,
Like something opening a window,
With a sweet, cut grass, bumble-bee, ice-bright,
Wood smoke draught.
Soft warm fingers gently
Exploring my face from the inside,
Leaving trails in the treacle He finds.
I almost hear Him sometimes,
Like I've placed a shell to my ear,
Or it may be I hear the quickening hiss
Of blood in my veins as I strain.
I almost see him sometimes
From the corner of my mind,
Like a speck of dust in my eye,
Or a ghost.
He brings me such peace.