The Black Locus, Acacia is a flaming beacon

of a thousand golden tongues.

Each one exploring the breeze,

chattering,  nudging the wind.

A crowd of leaves discussing

the Fall colours so rich to the eye.

Laughter!

 

The Weeping Willow hangs her head,

arms brushing the ground.

Still green, her long fingers touch the cobbles.

If it had been a stream they would write the

words they wished read, on it’s surface.

The stream would carry the message to the sea,

wondering what the sea would whisper?

Perhaps a song, perhaps the sound of weeping,

perhaps an anthem under the domed sky.

The willow would sing the descant, high and sweet.

Tears

 

 

David Garlick, Sidney, October, 2009