Malcolm Gladwin

The old tree speaks

The old tree speaks 

As sickle-saps drip slowly down

the cracked crevice of old bronze-barked bark,

filling age-ridden grooves with sap-time whispers

rings like time-coils and bark-riddles

guide each sliver of golden hymn,

sung from the wooden heart

of the ancient tree

that sits in solitary patience

within the fertile cradle of the earth.

 

Its roots run deep

ink-veins beneath the soil

buried truths in loam-lined silence,

a story only time remembers.

Golden, olive, copper, and ember-burnished leaves

adorn outstretched branch-arms,

grasping skyward like prayerful fingers

clawing at sunflame and blue-bowl air.

 

Creatures of fur, feather, and shell

have come to live

within the cathedral-calm

of the tree’s quiet grace,

its leafy hush dancing gently

in the breeze-song of life.

 

Hollowed branch-chambers cradle squirrels

who scamper across limb-paths,

gathering acorn-bullets and berry-treasures.

Songbirds weave grass-threaded sanctuaries

first the pale-shelled eggs,

then the soft-open beaks,

tiny hunger-mouths calling skyward.

Oh, how great and endless

the passing of time feels here.

 

Ants in armor-black processions,

leaf bugs like tiny green ships,

march in quick-dart rhythm

to hive-thrones hidden in shadows.

A honey-globe hive swings

from a bough\'s elbow,

and the bees—amber-striped architects

buzz with pollen-dust urgency,

coming and going,

coming and going,

wingbeats strumming nature’s constant chorus.

 

Petaled firework-flowers scatter across field- colourful mosaic,

and butterflies—winged lanterns of the meadow

hover in nectar-drunken bliss.

The white bunny, cotton-puff soft,

hops shyly through tall grass-forests,

aware of sharp-toothed silence

lurking in predator-shadow.

So all—claw, beak, hoof, and wing

move with careful grace

in their dawn-and-dusk wanderings.

 

The weavers and red-billed finch

dip between river-hum and stone-kiss,

while the swallows,

like storm-oracles,

dance in spiral glyphs

to herald rain’s return.

The field—painted in wildflower-confetti

welcomes all.

Bees harvest sun-dust

to craft golden honey

sweet elixir of the meadow’s memory.

And in some nearby den,

a honey-hungry bear dreams

of golden-steal delights.

 

All life congregates

beneath or beside

this rooted titan.

 

Oh, great tree

what world-tales dwell in your marrow?

You, the watchtower of ages,

older and wiser

than the ones who seek your shelter,

who take your shade

with unspoken gratitude.

 

I wonder what dream-shapes

the passing clouds have whispered to you

what wind-stories

have sailed from hill to hill

through your listening boughs.

Bugs and birds,

beasts and beetles

all creatures great and small

find peace beneath your wide-fingered crown.

 

Who planted you here

in this particular cradle of earth?

Why this soil, this sky?

Where your root-knuckles

have twisted deep

into the rock-ribbed memory of the land,

anchored so that no storm,

no flood,

no clawing hand of time

can tear you loose.

Your strength is whispered

even among mountains.

 

And look at me now

a sun-dazed wanderer

sitting in your shadow,

on this white-hot day

when the sun scorches

the thin seams between

what we are

and what we aren’t.

 

From this perch

I see the valley unfurl

green-blanket plains,

honey-lit fields,

and grey-boned mountains

etched in distance.

They too are wise.

They too are old.

 

But I am human

and in time,

my needing hands

will bring more harm than grace

to you and your kind.

 

I come searching

for branch-wood to burn,

for the bunny to trap,

for the hive to pillage.

I come to hear the birdsong,

then take

from your silvered bounty.

 

I am flawed

a creature of constant appetite.

But this is the life I know:

to take,

and take,

and take again.

 

So tell me, wise tree,

what choice does the grass have

but to grow?

And is this not true for me?

Am I not just the machinery

of my nature

a construct bound

to the illusion of freedom?

 

How do we coexist

when my hunger outweighs my restraint

and we both know

that someday soon,

only one of us will remain?

 

Will it be you

ancient oak-heart,

storm-witness,

time-carved pillar

who stood through epochs

but falls

to the blade of man?

 

Where are your siblings

that I may take them instead,

and leave you

to tower on

long after my bones

turn to ash and echo?

 

Perhaps—just perhaps

my soul will seep into you

someday,

when I am dirt and shadow,

carried by worm-trail and beetle-march

into your roots.

 

Perhaps

we will be one

in time.