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
I listen to the trees too, Steve… and this was so beautiful…
Thank you, Jaye; and for the kind reblog 😎
Reblogged this on anitadawesauthor.com.