RedRavenPoems

An Oak tree growing big and strong, a forest king above the throng. It towers and says I surely belong.

Yet at its feet a sapling grows, one that it should fear.

For its not an Oak, a child of this tree. No, tis a Beech come near.

It grows slowly in the shade beneath the ancient monolith

Biding its time, saying it’s fine. Someday the crown will be mine.

Years pass by, the Beech grows tall, it’s roots dig deep, a twisted snarl.

They tangle and mangle with the Oaks, in a silent struggle.

The Beech shoots up, higher than the Oak, after many long years. The time has come, the battle is won, the Oaks end is here.

The Beech spreads out its leafy boughs, snagging all the sun.

The Oak trembles and shivers in fear, for its time has come.

Decades pass, the Oak withers and fails. If could be heard by human ears, a shrieking wail it would give.

The end has come, the die is cast. The Oak at last breathes its last.

A mighty gale rips the forest one night, and the Oak topples, an end to its plight.

The Beech the Victor wears the crown, and spreads its boughs triumphantly around.