Another Oak by John Gould Fletcher — Read

Poison ivy crawls at its root, I dare not approach it, It has an air of hate.

One would say a man had been hanged to its branches, It holds them in such a way.

The moon gets tangled in it, A distant steeple seems to bark From its belfry to the sky.

Something that no one ever loved, Is buried here: Some grey shape of deadly hate, Crawls on the back fence just beyond.

Now I remember -- once I went Out by night too near this oak, And a red cat suddenly leapt From the dark and clawed my face.