A Daughter sat on a Mother's knee,
She said, "Mother, spin me a memory"
A Mother had a small laugh, more sad than smile, "All right", she said, "then stay a while."
She spoke of a place where life is still
Far on top of a sun-bleached hill,
A sun-bleached hill where something died,
But grew an oak, with arms spread wide.
This place created with solemn vows
A tree, with a life hidden 'neath its boughs.
For at the base of the tree lay a brown speckled egg,
As hopeful as a table with just one leg.
Fragile, wobbly, almost useless too,
But, with a little work could be good as new.
Can it be done? would it be in vain?
No, all it takes is some carrot and cane.
This tale, dear reader, is not one sad,
But neither is it one truly glad.
It's a tale of hope, for a start anew,
All we need is some work, and some paint that's blue.