Winds whistle through the trees,
The breeze whispers and sends the leaves,
To glance off an unsuspecting tree trunk,
And then to execute a spirited bunk,
Zigzagging among the gnarled roots,
On the forest floor, which suits
Them very well, and there each one settles,
Surrounded by the stinging nettles,
To compost down and feed the ancient earth,
And then, in time, to constitute rebirth.
© Ernestine Northover
