Withernwick 

in the village where I was born

there was always lots of trees

especially those in the church yard

gently swaying in the breeze 

I suppose there must have been storms

when those branches swung and thrashed

and there must have been times 

when branches split and smashed

but overhanging our cottage

those giants to my child’s eyes

sent me to sleep 

with their whispers and sighs.

and woke me in the morning 

as they played along 

to the chorus

of dawn bird song.

some carried my name 

carved with my first knife

all boys had one then

part of country life.

I sheltered from rain under those trees

trunks tightly gripped between my knees

as tightly as I would later hold any lover

as I scrambled as high as I dared to look over 

my world the village spread below

Most of those trees like my family 

are now dead and gone

those that are left shelter the graves

for us survivors who’ve moved on.

I rarely go back now

I feel so alone

but I keep the village in my memories

and let the village keep the bones

but over the years 

my village of singing trees

constantly keeps calling to me