The hands of time are my branches, I am a door keeper and the keeper of secrets, a blanket of blue bells lay at my feet, as I herald the sun upon my skin. I stand between this realm and the next, inviting any who wish to enter the unknown. Many a seeker has sought themselves amidst us, fingers plucking upon a harp and lute. The white heart has rested at my side, its eyes upon the lovers that bask in euphoria amidst the bounty of our blessings and delight.

Hang a lantern of hope upon my arm when you grow hesitant or falter and do not fear my shadow or my light.

I stand in many guises and shapes, that you know of well but do not take within your heart. The green man roams here, nothing more than a rumour, along with his beloved, paying their blessings to each and all, to the short, the poor, the rich and the tall, and to those who do not seem to have any luck at all.

The whisper of love forever spoken a thousand voices murmur its praises, there in dappled shade and canopy of green, burnt sienna and red Tread bare foot upon the fertile soil of mother earth, as I do, my fingers and toes eternally deep, replenished by what is constant and ever lasting. The tresses of my hair blow freely and all around, it often falls in shades of orange and gold there amidst the autumn harvest. Pluck and weave a bouquet or posy, from the luxury of wilds and graces, from the blooms that have many faces. Dance and twirl, smile and laugh, hold that offering out to one you love.

Our limbs can be graceful and lithe, and often they can be solid, hard and impenetrable, no lie to the knowledge in which we protect and yet will give freely. Lovers come and go, like the unblemished seasons of the annual tide, the hues of summer and spring give way to autumn and winter, the fruits of my youth fall, bountiful and plenty. Tears of blossom, shed giving way to days of warmth and thanksgiving. You will find inspiration here, and you will find your own truth, when allowing your self to rest, parting the veils of illusion, so you can see the pearls of gold within the folds of your heart.

Many reflections we do have, distorted within the blue water of lakes, rivers and streams beneath our caressing limbs. The time of mourning is to come, it is inevitable to lay my friends to rest, and to go inward, like a bear to a cave. The inner journey is one holding much beauty, treasure and clarity, we do not fear, we do not grow sad when we allow our selves to grow cold amidst the winter chill of snow and ice. Instead we take on new robes, that which sparkles, and shines in iridescence of the palest of blue. Do not fear for we are not gone, we are simply sowing seeds for spring and summer dawn. We even drop them upon your lawns, that of apple, conker and acorn, and be joyous all the more, for we will come back with hops galore. Cider and beer you shall drink, and we shall celebrate together, our branches stretching out to the sun and rain, to wash away all that which could be considered pain.

We have many friends amidst our limbs and arms, many who wish to find alms, and sanctuary. Beetle, bug, frog toad and the spider spinning its web anew, ignoring the banter of bird, wren and shrew, in their courtship dance of fertility and birth. A mole and badger will often come along to dig up the earth, the scent of nostalgia sweet upon the air.

We do not mourn the dead to pass, as they lay silent beside us upon the grass, their seeds of new life all around, as nuts and fruit, some growing rotten but all growing shoots. We do have friends in high places, some are old gnarled and pull faces, like that of father time. Then there are those who are supple lithe and sublime, growing into a place that is rather divine. To the senses and eyes our branches can reflect many a child like surprise. There are those who are scattered solitary and lone, the wind around them chilling you to the bone.

We offer home and shelter, for bug fungi and beetle, a banquet for many, a buffet to some, who pluck, and probe amidst our flesh, hair and skin, to seek the fruit that lays within.

Our children are far and wide, their children too, we are stand with many tales to be told, some are warrior like, some are bold, while others will jest and joke, and then there are those who are cantankerous and old, whose age is beyond measure and they are usually of the yew roan and oak.

We all extend our thanks to the heavens, sky and see, we give our blessings to you and the creator for calling us Trees.

~+~

I do hope you enjoy. Thank you for all of the support on this book so far :)