Come into my forest. Sit.
Close your eyes.
Then open them, fast.
Did you see the tree trunks settling,
hear the rustle of the mosses?
Try again.
Listen for the tiptoes,
as the trees lift up their scruffy skirts
and trip across the forest floor,
like gigantic fairies,
playing Mother, May I.
When we're not here,
they do this
all the time.
The trees,
to save their lives,
have learned
to move.
They flee, in packs,
across the river
to evade the loggers' saws.
They learned,
from the ones who were caught,
to be quick when they hear
the big trucks rolling in.
These few are safe,
within this park.
When we're not here,
not looking with our Awakened eyes,
they are happy, and dancing.
And practicing,
in case they need
to flee.
Kerry at Real Toads has set us the task of writing a poetic fantasy, inspired by Tolkien, Carroll or Milne. I remember my DELIGHT, watching Lord of the Rings, when the trees began their walk across the forest floor. I thought I might re-visit that again.
