Thousand Year Poems, 2

A hundred years I stand by the Old Crone River.

The Barren Fire Tree they call me, always.

My roots are deep and my leaves green. But never have I borne a red crown, like my brothers and sisters, scattered here and there, all over the rolling downs.
Barren, they yelled at me, and scared away my birds.

The Crone used to shout at them, and chase them in her untimely rage. But that is now all past. She's getting on with her years, and is reed-thin and muddled. Nowadays, sometimes she comes to sit with my shadow.
For oh, I am green and vigorous, and my shadow is long and dark.

She sits and mumbles, why did you do it, O daughter? You, my pride, my beauty!
I sigh and say, for love, o Mother. For love.

Aye, for I did have another sister in the village over the downs. She a maiden of queenly grace, was born on the day her mother planted me on this ground, and told me, be her sister, share her sorrow, 'cause many will share her song.
And I loved her.
My gentle Ranee, she brought me flowers, and showered me when I was little and weak. We talked long and deep when she was still little and I had my first shadow. She told me all, and I sighed, and sighed for her.

Then one day, she came no more. Others of her people passed me by whispering her name. I asked them, I called. None came.
That was one strange year.

Then one day, Ranee came to me again. Sister, I cried, Sister!
Oh! Sister, how tall and beautiful you are, cried she. And oh, oh how wretched am I!

Tell me all, heart of my heart, I leaned.

Mine is a sad tale, said she. I am barren, says the Wiseman of the temple of the black god, and no man in the village will ever have me. I will be lonely, always, and oh, oh how I have always longed for children!

Is that all, my sunflower, my little bee? To be lonely always, and never be fruitful? Never to call anyone your own? Never to rest, surrounded, in your own grove? Give me this burden, your sorrow. For I shall give you my song. For as long as I stand here, alone, your seeds will never fail. Go now, tell your Wiseman to give his curse to me. Tell your black god that I, your sister, am standing guard. Go then!

Her people came and worshipped me, dressing me up in red twines, and flowers, and called me sacred. I stood alone, soon.

Ranee came with her young man, who looked much like the black god, to see me. Then she came with her first child. And the next. Or next. Till she came wrinkled, with grandchildren, and then no more.
How long ago was that, O Mother? Was it a decade back or four?

I grew, and grew. I drank deep. I grew so tall, and green, and strong, that they stopped worshipping me and yelled, barren.
My shadow now covers half the downs and across the Old Crone River.
Why, O Daughter mine, why? She whispers.

For Love, Mother, for Love, I whisper back.