In clandestine heart of the eucalyptus grove,
Where sunbeams filter, a shimmering robe,
I find myself lost in the whispers of old,
In ancient voices, marks, only trees are told.
The rustling leaves, a chorus, light delight,
A symphony of murmurs and echoes, through the quiet,
The scent of earth, raw bark, a fragrance so sweet,
Inviting surrender, shade, wisdom, so listen, and meet.
In this embrace of branches, and paint, I find peace,
A sense of belonging to the land, at ease,
The trees, like mothers in love, with kids, stand tall,
Sharing some secrets, their stories, their call.
In grey stillness, I hear whispers, see writings, a calling, so fast,
This sanctuary of ancestors, sentient to last,
The wind, a gentle nestle, carries the tale,
A friend, a land so timeless, where nonobject and human prevail.
To wander, to wonder, to wander.
Jan Cleveringa, Artist.
2024
Jan Cleveringa ~ Artist 