The Poetess...The Oak...The Descent Pt 3 Poem by David Whalen

Deeper…darker,
the pull ever stronger
Girdling her arms…
tendrils of mist,

Toward a huge, hulking Oak,
seen dimly afar
Tugging her toward it,
unseen hands on her wrist

It stood alone in a clearing,
lit by gibbous moon
Long wide gash in it’s flank,
from long ago lightning

The poet could feel coldness,
and knew all too soon
That what was to come,
would become much more frightening

The far distant cry
of her name in the night
Was riven to pieces
and blown away in the breeze

Her heart hammered hopelessly,
face frozen in fright
As our young lady poet, …
Entered… “the land neath the trees”