I don’t know where they came from

I don’t know where they came from

The trees,

Tall and willowy

But not willows

Out of a fantasy novel maybe

Wood nymphs?

If there is such a thing

Who would know

When they keep themselves

To themselves.

Do writers make that stuff up

Is it a collective memory

Inherited

Genetic perhaps

Historical learning

The heritage years

Some people believe

We all have a story

We just need to tell it.

They were big is all I know

Striding off into the distance.

If you want to believe it

Is possible,

Squint a little

See the expressions on their faces

Embedded in the bark

Warty and lived in

Without being too unkind.

Perhaps it is a compliment

The passage of the years

Written in the creases.

They looked at home

Belonged out in the open

Where the sky was big

I was a little in awe

We all were

Four skinny little things

The scrawny bony-ness

Of us

The scraped skin

Torn jeans

Punkiness of us.

The trees had been there forever

I guess

And if we left them alone

They would be there

Long after we were gone

Like the mountains

In the distance

They had permanence

Were rooted in the earth

We just flitted about

Blown this way and that

Fallen leaves

Soon to be dust

But for a moment

Out there in the open air

Under the sun

Marshalled by a line of crows,

We were joined

Moulded together

Bare arms stretched around a trunk

Eight hands entwined

Measuring the years

Holding the future

Listening for something

Words of wisdom

A whisper of greeting

When all we heard

Was each other breathing

Dumb kids

With nothing to say

Worth listening to

Before it became a thing

To say a whole lot of nothing

About everything.