Hymn to Trees

Black boots leave a bus  
as I watch it trundle off
into English dust
I pass through a kissing gate
walk past the orchard full
of Beltane blossom
up a dirt track towards
a meadow full of buttercups
and red clover.
There she stands
Bella, my oak tree
on her own in the midst
of a lone field
she who stands with ribbons
tied into her spindles
markers of every prayer
every thought
every wish ever uttered.
I sit here sometimes
crouching to reach a crawl-space
formed between dry ground  
and her branches
a hidden nest where I light incense,
read cloth-covered books  
full of ancient knowledge
calling out to all I know of this land
and I write
and craft
and whittle
taking nothing without permission,
making nothing without care.
When I am desperate, I seek out Bella
my shelter, my holy place
because this world is full of temples
built of gold and stone
but so few are made of leaves
so few anchor us to the purity  
of placing one foot in front of another
hearing the audible grind of that iron gate
and finding refuge from the grind
in some silent universe
some sentient form

Written by Northern_Soul (-Missy-)
Author's Note
Letters to the Old Ways
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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