The Willow - Poem by Jack Growden
From a rolling hill in one green Essex field,
A splendid, sweeping vista was suddenly revealed.
Rays of sunlight appeared marking the advent of dawn,
Invigorating the gully below on this placid morn.
The autumn calm was quite crisp, but pleasantly mild,
As I drew a deep breath and simply smiled…
Ambling down the path that led to the glen below,
I caught the gentle scent of an English meadow.
Well-worn, the trail continued to meander
Through lush pastures of flowered oleander.
Towering modestly among stood the odd foreign teak,
Which by the tree further on was made to look rather meek.
I recall he teetered upon the edge of a pond,
Whose lily-clad surface stretched into the mists beyond.
Dull grey skies gave way as the Sun did soon prevail
As I laid basking in the light at the end of the trail.
In the broad shade of that willow I sat down to drink
And with an instant haste began to think.
In a peaceful dreamy haze I pondered it all
Beneath the weeping willow, graceful and tall.
A half hour passed until I gazed up in awe
And tumbled into an admiring stupor.
For here hung this giant that seemed tired and run down,
His haggard branches bearing a beleaguered frown.
Though whilst his leaves dipped, defeated, below the waterline,
I stared deeper and found a core quite sturdy and fine.
By peering past the crinkled bark and stale sap,
One is soon convinced that he will never snap.
For with resilience at heart, he refuses to yield:
That mighty old willow of that green Essex field.
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