Rhiannon,
quick nymph,
tell me a story;
teach me to
speak to the
trees.
Magic may be a
secret, gone
for the telling
but language,
she needs to breathe.

Do the beeches creak
or grumble? I’m sure
the pines are rustling
whisperers and the willow,
old weeper,
is sighing
near the oak
who admits in a moan
that times they’re
always a-changing
the sapling soon
will be grown.

Rhiannon,
sweet girl,
I’ll join you
near the babbling
river, that fool
together we’ll sing
to the ancients
within us
their knowledge
will pool. In
time our ankles
will lengthen
earth-hungry, plunge
into the ground, our
bodies
amber and gleaming
will reach
bark-clothed, sky-bound.

Rhiannon,
dear rowan,
do you remember
all that we
used to be?
Boughs tangled, roots
curled together
weave our tale
in the language of
trees.