The forest

An avenue of trees
reaching high into the skies
marching on for many a step
immutable it seems

Their crowns are rustled
by the wind
Their bows sway and creak
As if talking amongst themselves

A uniform carpet underfoot
of rustled brown leaves
A memory
of sunny summer days

I cannot see
beyond their eaves
the wind is that of land
blowing ever further away

Here the sea is to my west
well beyond my line of sight
even the belvedere on top of hill
only shows rivers from afar

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