The Wishing Tree Poem by Paul Brookes

the yew bends grotesque and twisted its branches bedecked,
riband fronds shake in the wind, some new and shiny,
others so old the are rotting to nothingness.
some will not outlive the night, fickle feckless friable dreams
they crumble to dust blown away in the morning clouds.
some will last for eternity even though they have perished

the tree is impossibly old, it is renewed by starlight
stealing over the water or replenished by faith.
old magic never dies it lives within earth, water and wood
threading each branch with love offereings to an older goddess

she winks elusive among the grasses
leaving moonlit footprints sparkling with dew.
lovers twine and she smiles
not every love affair will end well;
she is a cruel mistress, hearts will be broken,
an inevitable consequence she supposes
but still the allure of the wishing tree
pulls in the crowds, lorn or sick with love.
as they drink from the rock basin
sealing their bargain with blood and stone, wood and water.