When trees toss in high wind and a suspicion
of rain travels across their dark faces,
I long for the old summers under smoky oaks.
Whoever I am, it’s not who I thought.
Who is it the rain and wind wake with their sighing?
That tree-lover, summer-lover – try and find him,
was he ever there? Did he love? Was he love?
Shh, say the trees, listen closer, listen closer.