Withernwick - Trees

In the village where I was born There was always lots of trees. Especially those in the church yard, Gently swaying in the slightest breeze. I suppose there must have been times When those branches were storm thrashed And there must have been times When those branches split and smashed But, overhanging our cottage, Those giants to my child’s eyes Sent me to sleep With their whispers and sighs. Murmured to me all night long And woke me in the morning As they accompanied the chorus Of dawn bird song. I sheltered under those trees. Some carried my name Carved with my first knife, All boys had one then, Just a part of country life. I clung to those trunks as tightly As I would later cling to any lover As I scrambled up to try to look over The village, my world spread below I scrambled as high up as I dared go. Most of those trees like my family Are now dead and gone Those that are left shelter the graves So I can move on. I rarely go back now, I feel so alone, So I keep the village in my memories And let the village keep the bones. But, over the years It keeps calling to me My magical village of singing trees.