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.
Copyright © Terry Ireland | Year Posted 2023
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