FAERIE THORN

There is a thorn tree

That we do not touch.

We farm about it,

Tip-toe the machinery

 In awkward circles

Around its territory.

                                                               It is an invader 

In our field, but

It has far out-lived

Each one of us.

It stated its claim

                                                            On the fertile land

                                                         Long before Grandpa

Was even born.

And so we leave it,

Just in case,

Its death-curse is true.

                                                        At night, figures dance             

Around it, in my dreams.