The way trees dream.

I listened to the wind of a summer storm leaning on the trees outside my window.

It was late at night but my head was ticking louder than my heart
so I was awake,
taking in sounds
while the gentle simmer of thought
bubbled away with just enough
pressure to keep the lid off sleep.

The big trees bend.
The air sifts through;
leaking between the lacery of
leaf and branch.

The trees sigh,
leaves rattling as the wind exhales,
then a clumsy gust
tumbling out the darkness,
reinflates the canopy.

There is poetry in the motion,
lullaby in the songs of the air;
rhythms in the resonance
of tuning-fork branches
spilling their harmonies
to the liquid night.

Air twists and turns,
Spinning together from mountains and moorlands,
skimming on rivers,
and skating on oceans,
bundling through cities…
threading these woods
with the weave of their travels.

I hover on the edge of sleep,
Listening to the suck and surge of air;
savouring the scents of
a thousand mingled journeys
as they shuffle and spin
Through the shuttle of branches.

Consciousness seeps slowly away.
The wind gushes wild stories
In the gaps between leaves
and I fall asleep wondering
if this is the way trees dream.

(c) A McN