When lightning struck, the elm was old already.
Its mighty bulk has rotted through, and yet
spring rain and sunshine have revived the ancient body;
a few green leaves begin to sprout.

Its bark, bleached white, is stained with yellow mosses.
Worms consume the crumbling trunk.
The elm stands while a century elapses,
lapped by the Duero’s curving bank.

No nightingales will nest here now. They favour
the rustling poplars which patrol
the roads and rivers. Other visitors take over:

ants climb up the tree’s dry bole
in single file, an army on the march;
spiders weave grey webs within, and wait and watch.

Elm of the Duero:

   before the woodman swings his axe
   and, after hours of his attacks,
   you topple at the final, fatal stroke;

   before the joiner comes to choose
   the bits of you he still can use
   to make a bell-tower, axle or a yoke;

   before you go for firewood
   in some poor hovel by the road
   and blaze next winter brightly on its hearth;

   before a whirlwind lays you low,
   uprooted, or the gales which blow
   from snow-capped mountains bring you to the earth;

   before you take the river’s course
   through valleys and ravines which force
   your great dead weight towards the open sea;

                         I will write one note of praise —
Your greening branch remains a thing of grace —
and keep it in my wallet. You’re in leaf:
my heart, like yours, inclines toward the light, to life,
in hope that, as it has for you, old tree,
this spring may work a miracle for me.