ramblings and things

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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




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Withernwick (Perfomrance Version)