The Birnam Oak

by | Sep 24, 2009 | Poetry | 0 comments

Where huntsmen once would sound their horn
The River Tay flows gently on.
The ancient oak grown gnarled of form
Still stands, though, Birnam Wood has gone.
How brave Macbeth would come to rue
The day his hand King Duncan slew.
One day, The Birnam Oak will fall
And through this copse the woodlice crawl.
Once sovereign- like the pride of men
There will be only silence then…


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