Tree House (Poetry)

In a rock-a-bye world
shaken soft by the breeze
with the patter of rain
on the shelter of leaves
and the milk-dappled moon
slanting pale lonesome light
the tree spirits sing
in those branches each night.

A timber house filled
with the sough and the sigh
of wilderness winds
that whisper on by
with the creak of a bough
and a shiver that breaks
like one ripple set free
while nothing else wakes.

High up in the canopy
way off the ground
in the realm of the birds
and their twittering sound
the warm air of summer —
its lingering dusk
the sap-sweetened twilight
and amber-glow musk

soothe into silence
until the dark spills
across the horizon —
pours down from the hills
and touches the forest —
the Green Man’s domain
where growth marks its seasons
in root and in grain.

Aloft in sky country
the clouds overhead
mould thoughts into pillows
so dreamtime is fed
with cradle-rock rhythms
that lull into rest
like a bird in a treetop
tucked safe in its nest.