Beyond Belief?
Marking the South-West corner of Coolmela’s plot,
Within the purlieu of the forest, stands a tree
So broad and tall its age must be immense. To me,
It whispers gently every time I pass; though what
The secret it would tell, had I the wit to learn
Its ancient language, I can only guess.
Perhaps
It speaks of Nature’s miracles, or else recaps
The history which passed close by. Or does it warn
Of future great events, of which it only knows,
And would inform me in advance?.
My guesses are
As useless to my sense as nights when shines no star
With moon’s eye sunk deep under stormclouds’ sullen brows.
Is it beyond belief that my aged friend murmurs to me
That Keats still lived when it was young, and it’s my link with he?.