Last night I watched her sleeping.
The worn out tree
gently thistles its twigs,
crisply in the light new year breeze.
From my window i stand and see,
and stare,
and gaze,
and listen,
and hear,
the tinted clouds in the evening sky;
the felines prowling in the grass;
not been seen to since new year last.
And in the night the blue sky hides,
the clouds they fade,
the wind it dies,
And to the thistles of that tree,
the Faeries dance
only mother sees.
And the fields behind,
and further then,
the traffic jams light up the night.
But not a sound can be heard,
beyond,
our withered tree,
that stands so still.
Not even sounds of the late night horns.
And she lies still,
and drooping head,
I watch her sleep,
safe in her bed.
'Till eyes grow heavy,
and weary i fall,
asleep,
and then forget it all.
