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AT THE PLACE OF THE HOAR APPLE TREE

ACS 'D' Version, 1066

by

Brian Wright

Published in Wiðowinde, the magazine of þa Engliscan Gesiðas Autumn 1998

Grown old and grey

my ground having stood

Gnarled and twisted

tormented limbs

Darkened by drear

drizzle of October.

My leaves lay dead

like shreds of youth

I grew greenly

a growing sapling

When England won

was homeland new.

Now I have lived

long past the span

Of my kindred

a king in age.

Apple yellow

was my young fruit,

But like England

bereft of power,

I bear no fruit,

a fallen king.

The woeful wolf

wails sadly,

Howling horror

on heroes feats.

The black raven

from bones tear flesh.

England's fallen

fell beasts devour,

The warriors who

warded my land.

Night like a prayer

nightmare covers.

Doom of the men

who death has spared,

Heirs to the land

their long-fathers won,

Pursued by fiends

pass from my ken.