| There she is again |
| On top of the hill |
| I saw her there yesterday |
| And the day before |
| ~ |
| She stands looking up at the sky |
| Her arms raised to the sun |
| And sways gently back and forth |
| In the breeze |
| ~ |
| I don't know how long she's been doing this |
| Every day at noon I see her |
| Always in the same place |
| Looking up at the sky |
| ~ |
| In summer her light green clothes |
| Flutter in the breeze |
| Sunlight filters through them |
| Drawing patterns on the ground |
| ~ |
| In winter she catches snow on her bare arms |
| And snow piles up around her feet |
| She shivers in the cold wind |
| And tattered rags fall to the ground |
| ~ |
| She stands on top of the hill |
| Braving all kinds of weather |
| Not just for a few minutes or hours |
| But for three hundred years |
| ~ |
| The chain saw cuts deep into her waist |
| She crumples up in pain |
| But no blood flows - just a tear |
| As the great oak topples to the ground |
A T Ramsey 2001