The trees
whisper at night,
bending low,
or stretching their necks
on tiptoes.
Ancient sentinels,
their gnarled limbs
creak with arthritic snaps.

A venerable patriarch,
his mossy beard well kept,
his wrinkled skin
seasoned and weathered,
leans to murmur something
softly,
to his Lady Fair.

She’s stood beside him
all these years,
her hair adorned
with robins’ nests.
She stoops to listen,
shivers with delight,
and whispers back.