crown of leaves

There is within this ring of gold and green a voice

Not of the river rushing by in flood

Nor of the nearby street where cards of early Yule, like fallen leaves

Are themselves passed by, vapid and unloved

➰

The old tree speaks an ancient tongue we recognise

The naked and the dressed are what is sung

The outer life stripped bare by winter, whereas we

Rush to clothe against the growing cold, feeling little

➰

Perhaps our warmth is sign of greater being

A light revealed amidst the crying green?

Perhaps, unable to mature as race

We, as stories of old, will perish in the flood…

➰

The old tree sheds its leaves

The ground around is lit with golden death

Take it, grow and glow, his ancient voice implores

My garments – lay them, wet upon your head

And make of them a wise one’s crown…

➰

©Stephen Tanham 2021

Stephen Tanham is a Director of the Silent Eye, a journey through the forest of personality to the dawn of Being.

http://www.thesilenteye.co.uk and http://www.suningemini.blog