The Three Oaks

There are three ancient oaks, That grow near to each other.

They lift their branches High as beckoning With outstretched arms, For some one to come and stand Under the canopy of their leaves.

Once long ago I remember As I lay in the very centre, Between them: A rotten branch suddenly fell Near to me.

I will not go back to those oaks: Their branches are too black for my liking.