THE HANGING TREE:

El tejo, Spanish yew, roots deep buried in Asturian soil,

It´s interned, entwined history where the good folk toil,

Arms akimbo, trunk solid, giving shade a thousand years,

But within cold wind I hear her wail & feel her icy tears.

This old Spanish tree weeps for the deeds of sinful man,

Sobbing for poor souls, whom from her branches hanged,

For all the good women of herbs, potions & ancient lore,

The only sins, alleviating pain from the ill & helping the poor.

Yew, so helpless, limbs heavy & with no voice of her own,

Witches died in her branches, of milky eye & heavy of bone,

Yew, guilty for holding them, gripped in her leafy frond arms,

Yew praying to forest Gods for forgiveness of their fatal harm.

Years passed, the men sinned, the old hags now dead & gone,

Yew stands in the wind & she still hears their sad & sorry song,

In cold gales, under icy snow & buried deep within her heart,

She knows as the hanging tree, that she & history can never part.