The towering tree was sick
It’s branches brittle and leaves turned yellow
It’s spirit like a trembling wick
It’s roots so weak in the soil turned shallow.
The gnawing termites kept on and on
The dark thick trunk was a gaping hollow
The grass around and the homing birds
Sat with drooping heads and mood so mellow
Half asleep and half awake
The tree swayed laboriously and so slow
The sap still seeped through memories
In the hushed hours of twilight glow.
In absolute silence,
The wind recites poetry
In hushed whispers
The leaves applaud
In a slow gait
The branches sway
Composing music
On their own accord.
In demure grace
The grasses bend
To sing to the earth
It’s favourite song
The frilly lace
Of the river lends
A spriteliness
As it flows along
In wild abandon
The setting sun
Fills the skies
With crimson paint
Across the fields
The homing birds
Become specks
Far and faint.
Hush,listen to
The nightingale
Forlorn , it sings
Of parting and pain
Feathers crumpled
And its head bent
It‘s teardrops mingle
With the rain
P.S: The first two lines of this poem was “lifted” from the Facebook status update of a friend:-)
