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Whispering Trees
There’s no time for poverty
When there’s magic in the air
So long as there’s food
There’s no need to care,
And a watertight roof
Over a persons head
And the music of trees as
He lies there in bed.
A soft sweet lullaby that
Continues through the night
Then accompanies the birds
As they greet day’s first light.
The magic majesty of trees
Dominating the scene
Unspeaking witness to
Many things that have been.
Their leaves flutter and whisper
Branches sway and creak
As if talking to themselves
Passing the news of the week.
In my little Yorkshire village
There was magic in the air
And I was so lucky to have
Spent youth and childhood there.
Knowledge comes with age
So eventually a person knows
With no longer a future there
He packs his bags and goes.
The bad things forgotten
His memory erasing the past
Ensuring that only selected
And treasured ones last.
I no longer know my village
It has quietly set me free.
But there’s that special gift
My village life gave to me
To this very day I can still
Be totally at my ease
Sitting anywhere on my own
Under magic whispering trees.
Copyright ©
Terry Ireland
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