The Pontfadog Oak

Derwen, quercus, sacred druid tree,
rings of history scribed in its heartwood,
stood its ground twelve centuries,
anchored by old roots and its own weight.

Twelve hundred years of leafing and unleaving,
of blackbirds' nests, pied flycatchers, a living
insect citadel, each crack and crevice
a cwtch for wintering wrens and honey bees,

its hollow heart a cave for lovers,
cell for the holy, shelter for sheep, cover
for soldier, thief, fugitive, conspirator,
a place of tryst, trust, betrayal. Older

than cathedrals, its branches caught the stars,
made cruck and cradle, roof-beams, rafters,
fuel for the hearth; pollarded, sprouted, spared
when Henry Plantagenet rased Ceiriog woods.

In 1165, the midnight bell-note of the owl
from its branchy tower the rallying call
when Owain Gwynedd roused his men
for victory at Crogan against the Saeson.

Ten centuries on, an April wind
brought down the king of trees. It fell unseen,
laying its branches, just beginning to green,
on Cilcochwyn's slates, slack as a dead hand.