She who is most unusual
made of something akin to a tree
but magic be something that flows
all the way through her core,
in Faith, she sits ever so still
the littlest of the three
ever so still she will sit
never minding the birds that perch
or chirp, stirring
never would she flee
gaze rested upon a still rock
barely the size of her fist.
in the hope that today be the day
her magic sparks,
like Clandence who can light a fire
or Papa who stands the mightiest winds
or even Mama who could sing
bringing mist over the mountains.
Papa’s voice playing in her mind
‘Faith can move mountains, dear,’
and she stares at the rock
while the other treelings play
hide and still.
Watch her a moment
give her a glance
maybe now, maybe in a bit
Faith may move that mountain still…
for three long days
the mountain remains,
and Faith dismays
resorting to a rock,
maybe that she will sway…
except how the drowsiness betrays
her head lulling from this side
and when she wakes briefly, the rock can no longer be seen.
Had she done it?
In her sleep?
Resolved, she stares at the mountain then.
Perhaps tomorrow it shall move.
‘Hey Mr, Mr. What you be doing?’
chimed a little fellow
down he be glaring
intrigued and beguiled
watching a grown man scribbling
on the trodden footpath
and curiously he’d be asking,
‘Hey Mr, Mr. What you be doing?’
The man smiled up
wide and crazy
a certain gleam in his eyes
‘Just watch, my boy!’
as he continued
picking this chalk and that
his hands dusty
and the boy did just that
dancing on his tip toes
over the man’s shoulder.
Slowly and slowly
the scribbles took shape
sported colours and shades
and in that strange concrete jungle
that once used to be healthy
came to life a giant tree.
‘Hey Mr, Mr. What strange thing is that?’
The man stood and dusted his palms
eyeing the buildings tall around he
and he sighed
‘That my boy, is what we used to call a tree!’
‘What’s a tree, Mr?!’
the boy beamed
drawing a greater sigh from he
‘It used to home, somewhere we could breathe,
fresh air, and greenery!’
‘Oh,’ the boy mumbled, pocketing his hands,
eyes on the tree on the asphalt.
‘I only ever seen them in books.’
‘Aye,’ said the man, packing up his pastels.
‘Nowadays, that’s the only place you’ll find it.’
‘Why? They look beautiful.’
‘Because we killed them all, little fellow,
one tree at a time till there were no more.’
‘That’s a shame, Mr. Maybe my friends and I would have liked them.’
‘Maybe,’ and with that the man walked away
in search of another path
for whom he could draw a Tree.
(I do hope this is not where the world is headed!)
Peculiarly it seemed
the seasons forgot to turn
the trees stood bewildered
shaking there branches and twigs
watching, waiting for their leaves to fall
the flowers turned their petals out
reaching towards the sun
astounded they did not wilt, nor lose there scent
the birds chirped excited, turning their heads to the horizon
what in the world was happening here
the rivers swelled and gurgled along
nourishing the soil they touched
and instead of frost, pollen fled and floated
streaming down onto the land,
birds and bees and all that’s there looked on
all their heads turned
they watched in silent inquisitive
as the sun lingered on
and the white cotton clouds rolled on.
The trees shook their branches.
Why had the seasons stopped and forgot to turn?
Peculiar it seemed, though life moved on.