What ruminations do the incandescent, ivy-clad trees,
whisper to the wuthering winds from the farthest shores?
Do not, the neighing leaves, fluttering, and dancing with the breeze,
mingle amongst the gusts fair, as reunited friends, at a carnival fair?
Or perhaps, their hushed whispers, trace the ramblings of the drooping dwellers,
who were so daring as to build upon nature's perennial, the scion, that now laughs with the ebon wind,
and shakes the speckled, many-hued clothes-line, from high boughs and brambles;
And, bringing the potted earth, falling to meet its ancestral home, exposing that wary person,
who could not, shrouding behind the mantelpiece,
look out and see afar, and realize both matters of the truth and black lies spun on fragile threads.
But, why should he? Did he want to see with the malice, that the wind shimmered,
spreading its enchantment through the brambles of that old spire, crooked in heart and hand?
Or, would he rise to the order of the protectorate, a guardian of his homely abode?
But, it shall never be the latter, for as this tale is spun, that perennial is long gone,
gnawed of soul and life, standing, a father of an older age, beneath the skies dim.
