Standing in a grove of ancient sycamore
their leaves rustling, whispering secret, inviting you to stay.
Their worn and scared skin just hints at their lives.
Burns, cuts, lost limbs, all paint a picture in your mind of the things this land has seen.
Look up, and you'll see pictures, maps,stories,
Each dot signifying something,
something greater then us.
Drawing you in like the rest of the forest.
Ask, ask the forest for stories, tales of long ago.
If your lucky it will answer.
The stones will speak of times long before people walked the earth.
The flowers will open up to you only in the day,
by night the fickle blossoms will have changed their mid.

So listen while you can.