A silent sky whispers the words of the wind,
the gentle swaying of the trees talk from within.
Mountains preach as I walk by,
I listen to the flowers sing a lullaby.
I listen to words of wisdom
as an old oak stands seasoned.
These stories told by young and old,
a landscape only yet to unfold.
The squeaks, the creeks and the deep moans,
have been told to me all alone.
I opened my ears and unlocked my mind,
what in this old oak am I to find?
He told stories of thunder
and stories of rain,
I knew then inside, he felt this ageing pain.
Of all the stories that were spoke
nobody could tell them as good as the old oak. |
