Trees that talk, sounds like a fiction, but they do I swear, they make predictions.

Mouths of bark they bellow aloud , bushy arms yellow sun-kissed cloud.

I bared eye upon the flowers that blinked and kissed me quite insane.

There is movement along the path of twigs, stone and gravel and whispered tricks.

The woodlands lives alone now, in tandem with wind, friends with the rain and lined with the bronze tints.

Leaves that cluster, birds nested in trees, I find myself lost and but completely at ease.

O’ wanderer , wander through bench-barked track, just ensure-

you can find your way back.