At the centre of the forest an acorn

like a fallen star landed on the earth

and opened as an oak, six centuries ago in April.

           In 1582 Shakespeare leaned against her,  dreaming of his future.

            Whispering susurrations.

            All the trees are listening.

She’s deep and well connected

beneath the forests skin

and speaks to hundreds of her kin.

            Dew soaks through the leaf mould. Can you smell it? Can you hear her?

Through storms and hurricane

draught and blight, day and night

she spreads her knowledge and advice.

              I climbed her branches and looked across the valley waiting for my lover. Shade spread out, cooling heated senses.

She soothes and shelters

a family of creatures

who cluster to her succor.

              Our squealing children run, kicking up the autumn leaves pretending they are squirrels, bandits, unicorns.

No sapling thrives without her.

Saplings need their mother

She is their school and mentor.

        The canopy above is cradlings leaves fine veined as baby birds refracting sunlight.

Come, you will be welcome too

But you must respect her.

Protection should be mutual.

         Robin Hood and Marion are hiding there in harmony.  Herne still hunts the careless.

© A.Chakir 2023