he called me from the corner of the park - without a word - just a gesture - a beckoning made with a stiffened arm - a crooked finger - he called me close to share his secret - to warn me to mind where I walk - not to crunch so heavily through the browning leaves - because those leaves are not just cast-off thoughts of seasons past - they are the tears of trees - trees that weep - year in year out - sad at the fact that no-one wants to sit beneath them to tell them stories like they used to - no-one sits below while they read the newspaper over their shoulder - no-one kisses under their canopy to let them eavesdrop on their heartbeat
2 comments:
beautiful sound.
trees weep indeed, they know they aren't loved or understood enough
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