A thousand years or more it’s lived so they say, at least

Centuries before it became guardian for the deceased

These ancient builders of the church all knew

The magical and deadly power of the yew

 

Locked deep inside the secret of immortality

Pure poison within the yew, result fatality

Sitting in quiet contemplation, “tell me fine tree

A thousand years lived, what did you see?”

 

Do I hear a whisper on the wind, a rustling of leaves?

“I’ve seen good people, the poor, beggars and thieves

I’ve heard battles, preachers, the happy sing a song

I’ve seen it all, for to this landscape I belong”.

 

Looking at the church again, some five hundred years old

And then at my new friend the yew and if I might be so bold

Good yew made sure the church, by the power in its leaves

Was positioned just so, offering shelter from that northerly breeze

 

Whatever humans plan, thinking themselves clever

The yew tree knows and will perhaps go on forever

 

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