My Tree

I walk through the forest,

Treading the path of mushed-up leaves, I have made countless journeys to this spot.

I stop, there it is…

My tree stands tall against the blue of the sky,

Guarding the forest she has made it her job to protect.

Like a mother to the bush around me.

She is calling when I rest my hand on her trunk, I reassure her that I am here.

Climbing up to my favourite spot, I feel the rough, mossy branch’s softness as I settle down and open my book.

Dew is cold on my legs but in a nice way,

The wind is a title wave of noise and colour,

Whistling in my ears and whipping my hair from my face with a soft swish.

I look down,

The small plants littering the ground stretch up trying to reach the sun,

frolicking in the dazzling light.

It is comfortable here wrapped in the arms of my tree,

I feel as though I could stay here forever.

But my mother is calling me in,

Yet I linger, not wanting to leave the safety of my tree,

To return to the war of the world.