The trees surrounding the lake are so loud today,
or have I not noticed their haunting yet gentle wails until this steely morning?
Even though they seem quite young,
they creak and groan
just like me with my old bones.
It is as if they are trying to tell me something,
unperceivable to the human mind,
a language never learnt, or sadder still,
forgotten, by human kind.
I creep closer to them to listen,
as I lean my hands against their bark, abrasive.
“What are you saying?”
How strange that the sound
is akin to creaking doors, floors
and ships on the ocean,
as if their spirit is in the wood, still in motion