I write because the words are there in everything I do;

they are the pattern of the trees and how the forest grew.

They are the whisper in the wind, the rustling of the leaves,

they are the mourning of the land; the death song as it greaves.

Wind dances on the water and laughs amongst the waves,

it sings the song of lives long past; the sanctity of graves.

It drives away the Summer heat, it makes the winter cold,

it sings the song of futures as I watch them now unfold.

But still Old Sol shines down on me, warms my inner Soul;

a warmth that fills my heart with joy and makes me feel more whole.

So in this world there’s balance Gaia keeps ever fine;

she warms the cockles of our hearts – full of love, yours and mine.