THE HANGING TREE

    THE HANGING TREE     BY TIM WILLIAMS JULY 2014

THE TREE THAT ACHES WITH THE WEIGHT OF IT'S PAST
AND IT'S SAP DRIPS A TEAR DOWN IT'S BARK
IT SLIDES SLOWLY CHOOSING IT'S EVENTUAL END,
AS THOSE THAT FELT THEIR FULL SWINGING WEIGHT HAD DONE.

IF THE TREE I FEEL WAS FELLED TODAY
THE ECHOING MOANS OF THE DEAD'S MOTHERS
WOULD OOZE FROM WITHIN IT'S RINGED GROWTH,
EBBING FROM A LESS FORGIVING TIME IN THE DISTANT PAST.

BUT JUSTICE WAS SOUGHT, AND JUSTICE WAS DONE,
ANOTHER NOTCH ON THE HANGMAN'S BELT
UNREMEMBERED NAMES WRITTEN WITHIN A LEATHER BOUND TOME,
INK DRYING SLOWLY LIKE BLOOD FROM A VAIN.

THE TREE STILL STANDS, BUT NOW WITH IT'S HEAD
BOWED, MAYBE IN THE SHAME OR WEIGHT OF IT'S HISTORY,
IT STILL WITHOLDS ALL IT'S STORIES,
ONLY IT KNOWS THE ANSWERS THE HISTORIAN SEEKS.

ONLY THE HANGING TREE KNOWS THE TERRIBLE TRUTH,
OF THOSE WHO HAD COURAGE AND THOSE WHO CRIED OUT,
IT'S SECRETS OF THE CROWDS GATHERED TO WATCH,
HOWLING FOR BLOOD AND AN ELONGATED NECK.

THE SWINGING NOOSE'S UNFORGIVING SHADOW
SHOWS THE DARK REFLECTIONS OF THEIR FACES
AND TERRIFIED EXPRESSIONS ETCHED IN IT'S AGED BARK,
AND THE HANGMAN'S SMIRK UNDER HOOD IN IT'S TRUNK.

A LARGE CROW PERCHED ON IT'S HIGHEST BRANCH
LOOKS DOWN WITH EYE'S FULL OF KNOWING AND PITY
SPREADS IT'S WINGS TO ENCAPSULATE THE RISING
SINNERS MOON, AND FLY'S AWAY UNSPEAKING.