Trees

Yes, Trees. The combination of green and brown that you have grown up to drawing on your A3 sheets since childhood. Always picking a separate colour for every different tree. scribbling along its borders, making sure it doesnt fall out of your perfect outline. Giving it a nice little curve around the bark and smaller curves for its head where birds may sit and small squirrels may poke out and hide again.

And then you play around them as kids, hiding behind them from enemies, climbing on top of them for safety, plucking mulberries in the summer and making it the crucial wicket which must be hit to ensure there is a change in the order of play.

And in adulthood you sit under them, for hours and wonder, you write or atleast think of writing. The lesser few bring their partners for a kiss or two and mark it as 'their tree' and the immature ones carve out their names to immortalize their presence in that span of time when they cared about nothing but each other.

As you grow older, they tend to resemble your stature for some reason. Bent, bowed and fruitless. Counting each tree as you walk across a park or jog along a track. Some of us carry ourselves to nostalgia under it and others just stare at the ants below.

They may laugh at us as we pass by standing tall and bare, witnessing our behavious and mocking us for our foolishness but they acknowledge us for the gratitude we may have given it, always giving us peace in the absence of humanity.

As silent it may be, it chose to silence us even further.

A Hobbit's Tale

Far away in the realms of Middle Earth.
Rested a small region called Hobbiton.
And in a small corner lay a little town.
Known as the Shire, by all and one.

Where chimney smokes rose, white as snow
And trees danced in the music of the winds.
Here lived in a shack young Bilbo Baggins.
With tales up his sleeve that none would know.

One midsummer’s night as he sat in the fire,
Smoking his pipe and making round rings.
Staring with intent at his lone window pane
As he watched them trickling, the drops of rain.

As the fire crackled on through that hour.
The clouds thundered on as though turned sour.
The clock at his bedside ticked with each second.
But then from nowhere came a sound unheard.

It was a croak or a crack, he knew not which.
There was one and another and one more !
Whether it was a beast or just a little insect.
He had to find out, for it was now his itch.

The clouds had ended their tumultuous spell
But the mysterious noises refused to cease.
As the door opened, out came a figure all in black
It was young Bilbo Baggins, exiting his shack.

A lantern in his hand, he traversed through the mud.
In search for his beast that he sought to slay.
In the light of the moon, shadows danced on his face.
As the moths wavered about in their time of play.

His ears at his legs, he wandered on ahead.
The noise grew louder and more in number !
Was he alive and awake or deep in slumber ?
Nevertheless, he proceeded to meet his fate.

Soon he found himself reaching a small bog.
Enveloped in the sounds of different sorts.
There were chirps and croaks and hoots too.
He knew not where to look and what to do.

So he closed his eyes and raised his arms up high.
And in a heartbeat, the cacophony came to a halt.
Struck with the silence, he couldn’t believe his ears
With his head tilted to the stars, he opened his eyes.

And then he slowly looked down at the bog as it was.
But now he felt alone and afraid in the dark night.
Had he been abandoned due to fear or due to anger ?
Maybe his presence was an unwanted sight.

He lowered his arm to take leave when came a sound.
A chirp could be heard and then came two, no three!
Witnessing this ensemble, he smiled and waved his arm
The chirps waved too, rising and falling and moving around.

Then he waved his other arm and followed suit the croaks.
Waving his arms about along with the sounds of the night
He loved each moment of this strange and lovely escapade.
He was now a conductor and this was the choir he had made.

Climbing atop a rock, he looked down and heard them sing.
Which was once a racket had now turned into music!
As he stood there waving his arms in the moonlight.
The moths joined too, hovering above his head in a ring

Young Bilbo was there all night with his new found friends.
He even chose to sing a lore or two that he found to love.
And then danced a little too among the croaks and chirps.
Under the stars of the night he wished would never end.