Rags And Ribbons Poem by Mary Champion

When the Gods of our people deserted me,
I took my prayers to the wishing tree.
I followed my instinct to where it stood,
by the twisting path through the ancient wood -
a path worn smooth by a million feet
over centuries of divine deceit.
Gnarled and distorted, its lightning burned boughs
recorded the pleas and the desperate vows
of the hopeless, lost, despairing folk
who had sought the aid of the time-worn oak.
It was all festooned with their votive rags
and blossoming with the beribboned swags.
The rags and the ribbons bore witness to
the wretchedness that the masses knew.
Many were threadbare now, fading with age
but still imbued with the sorrow and rage
of the pilgrims who had brought their prayers,
poured out their hopes, confessed their cares
to a tree impervious to their pain,
and the rags and the ribbons all hung in vain.
In spite of the truth that I understood,
when I came to the heart of the ancient wood
and I saw the tree with its garlands decked,
the last faint hope that would not be checked,
took the bright ribbon that tied back my hair
to burden the tree with my unanswered prayer.