The thought of Byron wakens in my mind

The vision of a solitary tree

Titanic and contorted on a cliff

That overhangs a wild abysmal sea.

Its mighty root, a maze of tentacles,

Has put a lasting clutch-hold on the rock,

Much like the miser’s fingers on his gold.

Within its arteries the sap of life,

The procreative juice in torrents flows,

And gushes forth luxurious vegetation.

The foliage-covered head is always raised

In bold defiance of the elements.

Undaunted by the tempest’s fiendish rage,

Calm under the concerted stare of stars,

The fickle lover of a fickle moon.

On balmy days or peaceful summer eves

The rendezvous of master-singer birds.

Perennial, rich, melodious and sad,

Passionate and desolate and wild

And beautiful and always beautiful.