In The Dead Of Night Poem by Mark Heathcote

I'm an oak with rings ingrain-
my heart is a woodcut carving.
My soul, a gnarled wooden cane
It no longer prevents my falling.

I'm a mountain-pine-forest
a field of flattened wheat:
a no-man's-land, a gauntlet
threw down in beseech-

Of war, of madness or friendship.
Take your pick; I am ready for all.
I have sharpened and whetted,
sheaved my blade, heeding its call.

I have vanquished-my-enemies
one and all, to see them lonesome fall.
I have rewritten their parodies.
In my turn, I've stood equally tall.

I have ignited into blossom,
and unfurled to catch-sight
every flower my breath can-bosom
hold to itself in the dead of night.