Sacred Yew Poem by john (called jack) wren

Priceless, ageless, sacred yew
with arthritic limbs askew
stretching roots in soil at rest
hallowed ground their just headrest.

This elder statesman of Holy soil
which century begat your toil?
was Britain ruled by a just King
or under the heel of a cruel Viking?

Far taller than the ancient church
or the flamboyant adjacent birch
who, recalls the bows of Agincourt
and the slaughter that it brought.

You must have many tales to tell
from the never ending carousel
of weddings, funerals, joy and tears
from buccaneers to old brigadiers.

Some pass you by with a brief glance
others are hypnotised by your stance
and the ageless beauty you portray
keeps all evil thoughts at bay.