One Poem by Malcolm North

 

THE ENT’S DEATH 

 

 

Roots that wandered far and near 

whither now in autumn’s air. 

He finally sheds his leafy wear, 

and so he lies,  

silent and bare. 

 

Each fallen leaf floats like a feather, 

with wistful thoughts  

of fields of heather 

and brooks that bound him like a tether. 

He remembers rains, 

and winds, and weather. 

 

Deep within his ligneous hold, 

rest sylvan stories he once told. 

Their secret words in rings enfold 

a rotting form,  

leafless and cold. 

 

Now asleep in mossy bed, 

he dreams of stars above his head, 

recalls the days he once stood tall, 

laments his end, his fateful fall. 

For time has come 

for him, like all.

Malcom North lives on the east coast of the U.S. and enjoys reading and writing fantasy literature. He has previously published in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.