On a day I chanced to sit
Under Hornbeam in my mitts,
Looking out across the vale,
Sheltering from the howling gale,
Tightly wrapped in scarf and cloak,
Listening to English Oak
Who was humming merrily.
Hornbeam said: ‘Does that a lot,
I fear he might have lost the plot.’
Me (in Tree):
‘But don’t I hear a tuneless,
Yet somehow catching sound,
Rasping, crashing noises,
Swishing whispers, cymbals, gong?’
A strange duet it was,
As storm and tree began
To tell of holding close and letting go,
Their voices joined in song.
English Oak made our day,
Deftly managed to allay,
To befriend the fearsome gale
Who presently began to play
Tag up there in the branches
Leading Dragon merry dances,
Who by then had left his home
Under Hornbeam’s root,
Having, frankly, quite a hoot
Chasing wayward waftings.
English Oak shook with laughter:
‘Oh it tickles! How delightful.’
Hornbeam (to me):
‘Now, what do you say to that?
I think we are duty-bound to add
Singing Wind to our odd
Language catalogue.’
©jsmorgane