A Man In His Castle

My father declined to cut down the trees
where he built his beloved sylvan home,
thinking them a fortress against the breeze,
or the columns of ancient Greece or Rome,
but as the March windstorm shrieks like banshees
I watch, and worry, in the early gloam
and think of the courtier, Damocles,
while trees fall like swords from their vaulted dome.

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