Pendulum

•

Bare, so bare, that old oak tree
six miles from Kalem town.
There the guiltless at their last
all swung free. And when I go
through the shade it throws,
a shudder runs over me.

They charge him
with their old, old crime.
Hold him in their eight-by-five.
No lights, no lawyers,
no telephone. Outside,
October dogs moan.

Ride. They ride.
They've chosen
the new-moon's road.
A guiltless load, a hood,
a rope, and souls
knotted wrong.

A prayer.
A swearing.
A hand to sky.
Laughter, lying low
in captors' throats.
The tree hears
the final sigh.

Judger-man
red cross, black
mask, cowl white.
Preacher and his eldest
witness justice
under night.

An oak is a promise,
even dried, dead.
It will remain
burned, stained
until Kalem dreads the memory
of his face.

Bare, so bare,
that haunted oak
six-miles from Kalem town—
dried, dead, burned
by dread—still
standing for that folk.

Adapted from Paul Lawrence Dunbar