The Wolves of Andover

Tall against the sky it stands, silent witness

To man’s frail grasp of God’s unending Grace.

Beneath its branches, shades and shadows creep,

Strangers to the light they now outpace.

Blame not the oak; as I it could not speak.

Truth shared our shackles, mute.

In thrall to fear, rough hands and hearts did seek

To pluck the truth from this tree’s blighted fruit.

Through boughs of glittering green I saw the dying leaves,

Drought-blasted, poised for flight.

God’s seasons soon will strip these branches nude;

And then, oh then, spring-born buds will seek the light.