steven cooke
A Tree grows in Avignon
Planted by a Soldiers hand,
She slept, while Europe blazed.
Bore silence through winters cull
Captured in darkness, there to laze
Amongst the ruins of Avignon
Freed by the spring
Guarded by the sun
Born in thunders drench
A seedling of hope for Avignon
Gave witness to unjust death
Found her strength in summer’s breath
Drank the blood of murders shame
Grew fertile, her innocence to bear
Seduced by the bees of Avignon
Gave birth, to temptation
Casting forth her gift
Amongst the ruin
While Children played, in her boughs
A new beginning, the bad forgotten
Healing the scars of Avignon
Taken confession, the old to cleanse
Listened to love
Their dreams to mend
Sheltered the lost, from Natures eye
Watched children grow
And the old men die
For she is the spirit of Avignon
Planted by a soldiers hand,
When dark clouds gathered
A place of love, redemption tethered
To forget the war
And find his wife
A tree of Life for Avignon
Time moves on.
The soul returns
And still she grows
Anonymous to a stranger’s eye
A cathedral of hope, a grannies smile
A tree of home
A tree that set us free
That tree that saved my Avignon.
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