sheena blackhall (18/8/1947 / Aberdeen)

Trees live simple and quiet under the changing sky
Of their ancient Gods

They are not weighted down with superfluous worries.
When the burn burbles over stones
And the leaf-span droops its shadow
None of them agonise over
Perfidious bankers, political allegiances
Social media and its egocentric concerns

The trees sprout buds and leaves
Trunks run with resin
Only the call of a blackbird breaks the silence

Enter the door of the forest, the quiet place
Friends are waiting to greet you