Amongst the space of a lonely field,

Towering into winds never before perceived,

For many a century, the wood stood unpeeled,

History’s hardest winds never before conceived.



This night, your great winds blew, relentlessly,

Shaking all umbrellas as they wandered,

And sweeping side to side shattered panes carelessly,

Macintosh jackets thought as squandered.



Stood upright, resistant to gales,

Arose squelching sounds to tree roots,

Battered and blustery heaped on, it fails,

Tougher than a pair of old boots.



Creaking and leaning, sinking deep into,

The tree sought to stand hard on the land,

The air blew and grew as the storm did brew,

Tanned tree’s fanned roots sank into sand.



The turbulent gust gave more bursts of force,

Fierce furious and volcanic blasts slammed,

No longer the tree could hold its long course,

Rammed into it and cause it to be dammed.



Tempestuous savagery caused the tree to turn,

Leaves leapt into volatile and quarrelsome air,

Down went all branches as the trunk turned up fern,

Slumped down, did it all without but a prayer.



The ruinous remains of life situated across,

Soon, dies down the storm of the night,

New horizons lay out for its coating of moss,

Once upright, now fitted tight, susceptible to parasite.



The adaptive bole will adjust as best,

The sideways makeover, an alteration,

Its fruits shall bear once more upon its crest,

Should it steady in its newfound acclimation.