She resides in the trunk o’ the old oak tree
That stands alone upon a rocky hill.
Known by all who dwell in the valley below,
The Lady O’ The Mount, if you will.

When the autumn winds blow across the land
Her branches swing to and fro.
Leaves fall through the air in a flit and a flutter,
Never touching the ground below.

The villagers in the glen tell a tale o’ great change
Recounted by young and by old.
A tale o’ the sun spiraling down out o’ the clouds
Turning leaves into wings o’ gold.

Transformed into a colorful array o’ butterflies
By the mighty force o’ the gale,
They flutter into the heart and soul o’ believers
Who thrive on lore in the vale.

They remain until the green o’ spring comes alive
Warming souls amid a winter chill.
Held in the hearts o’ the faithful is the oaken lore,
The Lady O’ The Mount, if you will.

© 2002 Ruth Norman