Beverley Westwood


You who would pass by and raise your hand against me,

Harken ere you harm me.

I am the heat of your camp fire on a cold night, the friendly

Shade screening you from the summer sun,

And my fruits are refreshing draughts quenching your

Thirst as you journey on.

I am the beam that holds your house, the board of your table,

The bed on which you lie, the timber that builds your boat.

I am the handle of your hoe, the door of your homestead,

The wood of your cradle, the shell of your last resting place.

I am the gift of God, and the friend of man.

You who pass by, listen to my prayer, harm me not.


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