“Thieves have stolen my leaves!”
exclaimed the tree.
“Every year, at this time,
the leave thieves are committing such crimes
as make me shudder to the core,
do they think I can just make more?”
“Thieves have stolen my leaves!”
exclaimed the tree.
“Every year, at this time,
the leave thieves are committing such crimes
as make me shudder to the core,
do they think I can just make more?”
I’ve been through the dessert like a tree with no leaves,
Not that that makes much sense sense.
or any;
but I can only work with
what is in my head…
and the things that inspire me.
.
At this time of the year,
the trees fall off of their leaves,
which leaves them somewhat barren,
naked as the day they were born.
Don’t scorn my talents,
for my creativity
it hangs in the balance,
and who knows
where the leaves travel to
when the wind blows?
When the leaves
fall from the trees
the trees remain;
but, what if
the trees fell down
and the leaves remained?
What if?
Leaves without trees,
and trees without leaves;
the Autumn and the Wind
are such seasonal thieves.
.
Gone are the thick coats of summer,
and barely they stand
or they fall;
leaves without trees,
cling to their memories,
and trees without leaves
wait the call.
The breeze in the trees,
accompanied by a chill
that was liable to freeze,
and stimulating rain showers,
made my heart go all a-flutter.
‘Pitter-patter!’ falls the rain.
‘Brrrr!’ goes my soul.
Whilst the wind whistles a
wailing, and a wassailing;
whilst whispering under it all,
‘Well, what do you think of all this, Wusses?’
Leave the leaves
upon the trees,
and leave the trees alone.
Are you listening West Wind?
It isn’t much I ask,
not a difficult task,
to leave the leaves upon the trees
and leave the trees alone.
See here for the photograph that inspired the words – G:)
It’s about the trees,
or the sheep,
or the sky.
Swaying in the breeze;
chewing the Winter feed;
or hanging ominously above us –
you know which is to which.
All together
in one picture
they sit side by side,
juxtapositioned
by Nature.
The New Forest felt particularly old, today; and parts of it decidedly ancient. Still, it would most likely outlast me.
In thirty or forty years time I would probably be buried deep or burnt to a crisp; whilst the forest would just be a little older, a little less sentient.
How morbid, I thought. But, realistic, I added. These trees have been here for absolute ages; some, for centuries – and the forest as a whole unbroken since William caused it to be planted. New it was then.
Somewhere, a screen-door slams
A car horn is punched in irritation;
A baby cries for milk;
and the city mill keeps on turning;
But, I am here
Where a twig cracks underfoot
Birds are heard
And space there is to think the word.
I shuffle through leaves
And breathe the air
Releasing the concerns
Renewing the care
One soul in a forest
Alone for a while
In this underpopulated wood
In this overpopulated world.
Posted in Forest, Hampshire, nature, New Forest, Woods
Tagged #forest, #hampshire, #nature, #newforest, #Trees, Poem, Poetry