The Yew
I am a wanderer though I stand tethered to this ancient land Where I have stood two-thousand years Gathering human hopes and fears. Seeded beginnings, fallen not planted On a mound by Tyne once they landed. My noble sisters are worshipped too, Round furr'ed barks, the auspicious yew. We cannot leave, though evergreen But, oh the sights that we have seen. Worshippers gather our feathery fronds, Golden-sickle reaped, willow-woven wands. In northern lands aglow with lights On sacred sites mark solstice nights. I am a wanderer though I stand tethered to this faithless land Marching soldiers pass on by - fording rivers, cross fields of rye, And place stone altars, bathing me In bloody sacrifice, they worship free. Praying for return to deciduous climes To escape the chill of northern wilds. When nomads settle from their Rome, Saturn decrees to bring me home. When earth grows iron, I, evergreen Am life in darkness, travelling unseen. I am a wanderer though I stand tethered to this changing land Through wars of fire, I remain, while Northern men rape and maim. Then a man of healing comes to pray Placing Saxon crosses in gentile clay. Masons shelter beneath, taking stock Raising hammers that carve the rock, Hewn in my shadows, amongst papery birch Stolen slabs will build their church. Here I recycle sacred bones, as they recycle pagan stones. I am a wanderer though I stand tethered to this fruitful land Growing slowly, iron grips my waist, Holding faster to this place. Bells peel out the last congregation, Ringing in a new generation. Men in black follow women in white, Singing feasting rituals into starless night. Delicate lace covers mewling sound. Caskets are lowered into the ground. My roots absorb the greedy earth, While marble marks eternal worth. I am a wanderer though I stand tethered to this mortal land The metal belt grows into me, Wooden columns spread not free. Another tree stands dressed in candlelight Takes my place on midwinter night. My soft bark wrapped in drifting snow, Ignited robins forage berries below. Hoary tempests weather my frame, As savage blasts cleft me in twain. I am a wanderer though I stand tethered to this timeless land The church is sold and gentrified, Trees left charred and petrified. A family comes, my boughs are found, and everlasting circles are woven round. At first they came bearing axe and saw, but only revive the glory more. Into my tree-house children climb and play, Until Time counts and they hide away. Bursting blackbirds will eat the fruits For in my arms their nests have roots. I am a wanderer though I stand Guardian of this eternal land Suzanne Fairless-Aitken
