Oldest Of The Old. Poem by Peri Morgan

Imagine for a moment,
if you please,
that lying under starry skies,
you heard the voices of trees,
what would they say?
Of which lost time do they belong?
Listen quietly and you will hear,
the magic of their song,
'cause although you think them simple,
it's not always so,
right there on that pimple,
the oldest of the old grow,
many lives of men they've seen,
standing on their hill,
and when all men are just a dream,
the oldest will grow there still.