“The tall trees of Britain
We worshipped and were wise,
But you shall raid the whole land through
And never a tree shall talk to you,
Though every leaf is a tongue taught true
And the forest is full of eyes.

“On one round hill to the seaward
The trees grow tall and grey
And the trees talk together
When all men are away.

“O’er a few round hills forgotten
The trees grow tall in rings,
And the trees talk together
Of many pagan things.

“Yet I could lie and listen
With a cross upon my clay,
And hear unhurt for ever
What the trees of Britain say.”
From ‘The Ballad Of The White Horse’ by G. K. Chesterton:

And from Mugo

Did I ever mention
the saplings
in Derbyshire
one winter
walk?

The ones
shaking with mirth
cracking jokes
in the snow?

And how I
laughed out
loud
with them.

But who to tell?

Thanks to Mark for pointing out the poem. Wonderful. And. Does anybody know the reference to the metaphor for meditation? Of a hen sitting on her eggs listening to them hatching? Send me an email via the contact form if you know. Please.