If only the aged trees could speak,
What tales they might have to recite.
This giant oak has stood for years,
Having grown to a massive height.
And as the decades have done their time,
So many things they must have seen,
As the centuries of human life,
Have passed across this Village Green.
Smart gentry and also tired labourers,
Staunch farmers and shy parlourmaids.
Coy lovers in their starry-eyed loitering,
Sly poachers intent on their trades.
Nannies with their precious charges
Out for a long summer stroll.
Travellers trudging through the snow
To reach their eventual goal.
Then the era of impressive aeroplanes
Bravely cruising the limitless skies.
The motor cars and the charabancs,
Each one a mechanical prize.
Wars, battles and bombs have come and gone,
Generations have passed away.
But still the stalwart trunk stands firm,
To observe yet another day.
If only the aged trees could speak,
I would answer them in return.
I’d sit ‘neath their branches, lost in awe.
Oh, there’s so much that I could learn.
© Ernestine Northover
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