In Growth

 

I awoke one morn, and straight began to grow,
And grew I ‘till the sun grew bright
And basked beneath the rays of light,
That shone on me and my delight.

Through years I watched the time go by
And watched the birds between me fly
And heard the new, young fox cubs cry.

Then slow I grew, and many children made
And saw my home, so pure, begin to fade
And fellows ripped from whence they’d always lain.

So called I to sweet Pan, our God of Life,
To save us from this ever growing knife,
That kills us with it’s claws of death and strife.

But softly Pan intoned to me just this;
“Sweet Oak, I cannot help thee now.
My hands are tied; I simply cannot bow,
And yet, I cannot make it stop;
Their guiles are hid and instantly forgot.
The truth of all that’s here will soon be lost
And only you and I will know the cost.”

And thence he left, with fairies, nymphs and pixies all
In lines behind his Panpipe’s call.

And only I, and such as me, remained,
To wait and cry in silence as it rained
And in our hearts, lost Pan shall be retained.

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© Fionyac