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-***** 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.
Copyright Malcolm Gladwin
July 2025
The Old Tree Speaks