‘Where the Beech Trees Grow’, a song


Kindred spirits make the drive to this enchanted place, wander off and give their minds a chance to seek some space, give their skin a chance to touch the mossy, gnarly base of trees that long have been removed from humans’ dire rat race. You and I, standing here, silent on the hill, as songbirds soar and make their calls, an everlasting thrill. Though wind surrounds and stirs the trees, their power never goes. We give our thanks for all that’s here, where the beech trees grow. Deep within the forest, dwell the pure fern trees – parasols that catch the light that filters through the leaves. Further, find a flowing stream that tumbles as it plays, creating holes to while away the hours of this new day. You and I, standing here, silent on the hill as cat birds soar and make their call, a mournful, piercing thrill. Though smoke surrounds and stirs the trees, their power never goes. We say a prayer for rain to fall, where the beech trees grow. We move along a track that marks the end of this gold state, Mighty trees that hold our hearts, we worry of their fate. A red-legged female races off, her speed may spare her life – may her joey never know days that bear such strife. You and I, standing here, silent on the hill. Songbirds make a cracking call like the eastern whipbird will. Though flames surround and stir the trees, their power never goes. We say a prayer for all who live where the beech trees grow. Once the flames have smouldered out, the stars will shine again. Rain will fall, and hearts will glow in bosoms of the friends of this fair place (which will survive and rise above its grief). May time from today until then be blessed and oh-so brief. You and I, standing here, silent on the hill, as songbirds make a heartening call, a hopeful, peaceful thrill. Love will fall and stir the trees, its power never goes. We give our thanks for all that’s left where the beech trees grow.

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