With Passion and Haste

With Passion and Haste


Into the woods they ran sully and wild,
far from their cottage and over the bridge.
Down the steep paths to the meadow so mild,
then up the long trail to the top of the ridge.

Eric and Derek, both born the same day,
were exhausted when reaching the top.
A mile and a half, the lads ran up to play,
neath the oak where they'd commonly stop.

Their pocket knives sharpened, as papa required,
would plunge through the bark with a twang.
Those piercings went on till sore muscles retired
and young bellies attentively sang.

For year upon year the two trod the same way,
as the mighty oak weakened with age,
its sap flowing out, to the sky it would pray,
as the "young men" set foot through the sage.   

Timid crows sitting still; like statues of stone,
offered one eye to gaze at the two,
as the oak felt a shake at the base of its throne,
and the winds gave their songs as they blew.

Eric and Derek impaled the tired wood,
while the winds blew with passion and haste,
then hearing a crack that they knew wasn't good,
they stepped forth where their weapons were braced.

The wind filled it's cheeks giving all that it could,
as the two stood beneath the old king,
who refused to let go of the knives in its wood,
while the lads to their razors did cling.

CRACK, then again, like the strike of a snake,
the old oak shed a branch from it's top,
while warning the boys with the sound of its break,
before hitting them both with a PLOP!

The limb being thick, showed no mercy for life,
as it sent the boys into the dirt.
The crows laughed like clowns at the boys in their strife,
who had quickly succumbed to their hurt.

None ever knew of the place the boys went,
the two simply vanished it seemed.
Their knives remained stuck in the spot they were sent,
and reflected the amber's that gleamed.

After thirty two years, the tree stood unattended,
that hearty old oak on the ridge,
Now healthy from feeding on death, it had mended,
as new brothers crossed over the bridge.