The Ancient Oak Road moves ever on just before me,
Crook’d ghost-shapes of the past sauntering by.
These ancient trees speak deep-root words to me slowly,
A creaking old road-whisper sent up to the sky.
The moss sways so lightly,
Inviting embrace.
Yet it sits up so high that it mocks my low place.
Still I smile,
And turn,
With pocketed hand,
As it begins to rain on this ancient Oak Land.
I continue my walk,
Smelling moist,
Humid rain.
And I come 'cross a basin,
Which once was a drain.
How pleasing to see the earth taking it back.
Now that there is no fear of a human attack.
The tadpoles and minnows shimmer 'long as they go,
They carry no memories of these old, aged woes.
My journey moves on,
As it ever will do.
But before I go on,
I have one quest for you.
Find your Oak Road,
It matters not where.
Go to your peace,
You'll find happiness there.