Short Ligneous Poems

The woods have been gathering here
for generations,
they bring their faithful rings
scored into aged ligneous skins.

The language of the trees is arcane,
it arrives from deep ancestral roots.

Tree-words turn green while still in the seed,

those seeds grow
until they sing like bells
chiming with the earth-turning sky....

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Amongst this ligneous I don’t run around,
keep still where all the timber spars surround,
for if I move a little man falls down
hate filled from stilts I brought him to the ground.

Delusion was his watchword when up high,
deluded how the light would  blind his eyes
but with his feet on grass the forest sees
and what a stilted mind defines as trees....

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The woods have been gathering here
for long generations,
they have their own arboreal language,
a nocturnal patois
ground out by layers of ligneous skins.
The language is arcane,
it arrives from deep ancestral roots
incantations that turn slowly
into the kernels of long seeded words.

Deep into the night I listen,
then listen yet more
to the garrulous gossiping
of a creaky wooden bed
chatting to a talky timbered floor....

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