Out of fluctuations and vibrations,
quantised potentials leaping
from charge and spins into dreaming
trees, evolved their own meaning.
Confused being with purpose, thinking:
For stillness and solidness we are best
so in bark and roots grows our trust.

Winding chaos through silver leaves beaming
each pod bloomed its solitary needing,
fellow feeling sapped at the roots
the tangles of brotherhood receding.
Only a dim earthly hum,
each trunk asserted its rights fiercely,
the bulk of the bark on its side.

Yet branches wilful in their reaching
freely seeking light gifted undeserving.
Unyielding roots divided the rebellious limbs.
No craft could control; rings multiplying
with the seasons, their soil patch guarding,
murmured greenly about their rivals,
acorns from the same father’s seeding.

Bristling in fury at poaching their fertile earth
which grace provided, the cool and wet.
A plan they determined by tree council
set in motion to cloak the sky,
roots stretched across the world to another side
leaving trespassers no place to hide.

How fared these trees as they grew old?
Their world a single geriatric cloister,
ancient and proud but hollowed out
no saplings to steal a drop of rain,
no exotic trimming or unwanted shrubs
reminding them of their first dreaming.