The Rhyme of the Sacred Tree

The Sacred Tree
(The prologue)

There is a sacred tree
In twilight's treasure's found,
That rises high above
Those tall mahoganies,
That scatter all around
These old plantation-hills,
Where sugar-cane fields hum,
That old plantation song,
That tells of days long past,
In this parish of St John.

When light rolls back the dark,
In that grey and peaceful dawn,
The fire-fly's glow fades,
Then, twilight's veil is torn.

And none can stay her essence
Cascading to these silent mills,
Caressing stones as sleeping lovers,
As her fragrance fills these hills.

And from the parish church she stands
A pebble stone's throw and a mile,
And you may see her dancing boughs,
East standing by the church sundial.
And if the wind should tether east
And if an Irish blessing rise,
A penny whistle's song to Bath,
Directly walked as the crow flies.

And should the Royal Talking Drums
Dare beat above her warrior's cries,
A full Ashanti's march away
Beyond the place Moretta lies.

The strangers drawn to hacienda
Far from familiar pathways torn,
Indeed beheld this secret shelter
Safe, from the gathering, angry storm.
And to the soul whose inspiration
Has been dulled and grazed life's smile,
Time stands halcyon, and spirits quieten
For in her shade, he dreams a while.

But from the blind, concealed, clandestine
Veiled from man's sight, each bough and leaves
They seek her not and ne're will find her
For they that seek her must believe

As for myself, I found this treasure
Moons now past when young of mind,
Within the parish of Moretta,
Uncovering tales long left behind.

Never dreaming to discover,
Never knowing days to come,
The Sacred Tree would breathe its story
On these green hills of St. John.

And within the shady cover
Resting on a field of green,
Drunken by her sweet aroma
Eyes opened in the strangest dream.

For the cherub of this parish,
Who proceeds as God decrees,
The witness to the planter's rising
The orchards of the slaves set free.

Beneath the frangipani's ceiling
Drops of rain roll to the land,
Words and images that hover
Then take flight flow from my hand.

Part One
The Kingdom of Ashanti

On Africa's scorching western coast,
There is a mighty kingdom old,
Where winding rivers wildly flow
In the blackest earth laden with gold.

So lush and green and fresh the trees.
So rich and pure the ancient land,
Birth to the noble souls of kings
That rose to birth the warrior clan.

Of discipline and careful craft,
Few mortal men attain
Their honour as a compass guide,
In truculent heat or rain;
Who gathered 'against the British clan
Their golden symbol to defend
And pushed the invading empire back
To stand guard, for their land.

The wars that grew in fame abroad,
Calescent talk of London's street
Inspiring men of ink to write
The British Empire's great defeat.

No silver beads could addle minds
Of granite-steel , with copper rings.
Traditions build on honour's head
And their men served their king.

United by their golden stool
That never touched the ancient ground,
They lived in honour's vortex glow
Bearing each his tribal crown.

“Asantehene” - revered name,
Of Ashanti's noble King.
His word commanded seas of men
To march to war... and win.
His kingdom traded with the north
And with south and mystic east
And mixed designs were blended in
Kumasi's stunning masterpiece.

The wall ran far and wide and strong
And was Ashanti's joy and pride,
And warriors stood watch day and night
On each of the four sides.

In time the king took him a queen
Who bore him soon a royal son
On whose blessed head a radiance blazed
As never seen on one.

Luxuriating unto a priest
Asunder split far from the rest
Like fishermen of Bosumtwe-
No boat! Swam swiftly on his chest.
But when the days of war were done,
He rested silent, deep in thought
Within a garden of strange herbs,
His mother's love had bought.

And here,within this healing place,
The Asantehene had designed,
There was no herb moulded by God
That children seeking could not find,
And in the garden's beating heart,
Amidst the healing herb array,
There stood a tree guarded by men,
Long as the prince had crawled at play.

'T was here he found the calmest wind,
That radiated in his soul.
'T was here he heard the silence song
And saw life's mysteries unfold.

And the boy came to his father
Seeking wisdom in royal yards.
Enquired why 't was this tree only,
Stood ever under warrior guard.

The king, he held prodigious truths,
Each guarded firmly with his tongue.
But on that day, he shared a tale
That blessed his gentle warrior son.

“The kings of Great Ashanti
Were known for trading far and trading wide,
Receiving rulers and great consuls
With splendour and with ancient pride.
Protected by the kingdom watchers,
Who saw where passers by came from
And spoke of enemies advancing
In secrets of the talking drum.

'T was twain full moons before the harvest
When a lone stranger from the east,
Sojourning from an ancient kingdom,
Seeking gold and speaking peace,
Told them of a kingdom scattered,
Subject displaced where none belonged,
A temple buried, burned abandoned,
His greeting not “Salem”.....”Shalom”.

And then spoke he of a new temple
And all the splendour it would bring.
Thus had he travelled to Ashanti
For temple gold to give his king.

And when he'd carefully selected
The gold in bars and all was weighed,
The sun was set...he would not travel ,
But asked them for a place to pray.

He came unto a tiny gnarled tree;
A warrior watched him either side.
A strange light hovered in the garden:
The herbs men turned and ran to hide.

That seventh day the stranger rested,
And he sang songs into the night.
The king they called to see the vision
Of the mysterious living light.
The seven colours of the rainbow
Could not describe the shades he saw.
The gnarled tree was decked with blossoms,
As it had never been before.