The Bowthorpe Oak

The Bowthorpe Oak

It stood when kings were boys in cloaks

and roads were tracks through fields and smoke

before the stone was set in towns

this oak had roots sunk deep and sound

Its hollow heart has held the rain

the grief of storms, the sun, the grain

a thousand years, and still it grows

as if the earth itself still knows

No throne, no crown, no blade of fame

outlasts the whisper of its name

a breath of time in every ring

it saw the fall of every king

Sheep have slept beneath its shade

and children carved their names that fade

a living shell of bark and bone

the tree remains, and stands alone

Not proud, not loud, no need to claim

the weight of time has shaped its name

and though it speaks in silence now

the world still listens, learns, and bows