Last night a tree whispered on the breeze,
To a girl, half-dozed in wakeful dreams,
With the groaning darkness yet retreating,
The processing dawn was ever reaching,
She stumbled here - Beneath his bulge,
She crumbled here - In weeping deluge,
Half-drowned, half-famished, to seek refuge,
When she heard the tree sounds, murmuring,
Which pierced the darkness, murdering,
From that old Oak so bold and bright,
He whispered with his treely might,
Where she sat safeguarded from the night,
“I am a tree, hardly alive, but wakeful and ever watching”
“I’ve seen many creatures warm and keen,”
“Grow cold upon this muddy green.”
“Yet here you wandered, pure and serene”,
“Whilst here I wavered, tall and lean”,
“I thought this was your dying scene”
So the tree whispered words unseen,
To all but her, who at eighteen,
She sat beneath him wild and mean.
The tree spoke wise and tactfully,
With arboreal tonality,
“Don’t write this self-told tragedy!”
“Awake! And get gone happily!”
“I’ve seen the moons that mast and fade”
“And many creatures stalk the shade”
“You’ve languished here in moon-lit chill”
“Don’t linger for that cheaper thrill!”
“Your puke is soaking in my roots”
“Take off upon those shaking boots”
“This life is yours and yours to spill”
“Now leave me on my little hill”
She shivered on his wooded form,
His withered branches bowed forlorn.
He brushed her head with leaf and thorn,
“The world is yours, and yours to dream”
“But memories aren’t as they seem”
“The worst is best forgotten,
“The rest will soon be rotten”
“Your pain is so ill gotten”
“But not so grave. Walk on. Be brave!”
She staggered off, a drunken kook,
Then in one final last rebuke,
The tree spoke quiet, not to *****,
The girl who gave him one last look,
“So long, and Thanks, for all the puke.”
