Sure, terrorism’s a curse –
The shootings, the bombings and worse.
We run and we hide;
Look on the bright side –
Food choices are now so diverse!
There was a Russian – he was red of hair,
And all the little children he did scare.
He said he’d slash all regulation
And that he’d divide the nation
From the neighbours – build a border wall.
The Russian said he’d make the nation great.
The children said that sounded much like hate.
He said he’d get the country moving,
Create jobs and start improving
All the people’s lives from short to tall.
The children feared the Russian and his schemes.
They saw as nightmares all his lofty dreams.
They didn’t like the way he tweeted,
Said that he must be defeated –
“Fire the big red Russian!” was the call.
The Russian said he didn’t understand.
He thought himself the saviour of the land.
Still the children, they would hound him,
Till investigation found him
Not to be a Russian after all.
I spied a grand old ash,
Close by the shore, where crash
The waves on shining sand.
I asked it: “Here you stand,
And have for many years.
What laughter and what tears
Can you recall, old tree?
Your secrets tell to me.”
Sprang up a brisk sea-breeze
To rustle its grey leaves;
Its branches swayed and groaned,
And then to me it moaned:
“So long ago I saw
Upon this shining shore,
The campfires in the night,
And by their flickering light,
The dance of painted men;
I was a sapling then;
Now fully grown am I;
My trunk is thick, and high
And mighty do I stand,
But on the shining sand
I see no signs of men –
The ones I knew back then.
Their fires have long gone cold –
To ash – and I am old.”
Then quiet – the sea-breeze died,
And soft the giant sighed;
The waves crashed on the shore;
The old ash said no more.