This poem was found by Jake Norris. He discovered it hidden under the
floorboards in his father's (Patrick Norris) computer room in the
house at Bleasby Farm.
The Hanging Tree
For centuries the oak has flourished,
Its branches growing wide of girth.
The roots grope deep into the soil,
Their passage eased by blood soaked earth.
And when the wind soughs through limbs gnarled and knotted,
Shaking in a macabre dance,
Sounds of death are heard for miles,
Ghosts of victims witnessed with a glance.
For the hanged die slowly, their lives extruded,
Salvation refused despite their pleas.
They swing for days, their bodies dangle,
From the branches of The Hanging Tree.
The Lincolnshire Wolds display a glorious vista,
A patchwork stitched in green and gold.
The history that surrounds that oak tree,
Is deeply rich, incredibly old.
So many lives have ended on those branches,
Years of hurt and pain and fear,
Maids and farmhands, peasants and paupers,
All have shed so many tears
While death pursued them without mercy,
Even though they scream; fall to their knees.
For fate awaits them, and they must dangle,
From the branches of The Hanging Tree.
And if the past comes forth to claim the present,
The dead rise up to walk again.
If disturbed spectres haunt all the places,
Where lives were lost to so much pain.
If history begins to rule the future
Hurting those you love with such steadfast,
And you have lost the strength to save them,
Your spirit sapped by visions of the past.
Then destiny to you is surely calling,
The path to take so clear to see,
Your life must end, your body dangle,
From the branches of The Hanging Tree.
