Whish

Whish, like the wind that gave her name,
Lived in the ancient trees
That stood on the cliffs on a misty shore,
Where the sound of the thundering seas

Had echoed for centuries undisturbed
By poisons that seemed to ride
In bright, crowded places of industry
To muddy the rising tide.

She heard a whisper from visitors
Who fled to escape the rain
That carried a sickness and took their friends,
That left them to die in pain.

She looked to the clouds that hung dark and grey.
She leaned on one ancient tree
And felt her heartbeat wild with fear
For, what would tomorrow be

If she didn't have her quiet home
And the rain didn't touch her face?
If ever the trees should be killed that way,
Is there another place?

Lonely she sat as the tear drops fell
And night shadows drifted in.
Silent and saddened she prayed for hope
As she felt the end begin.

She called to the sky in a desperate plea,
But nobody seemed to hear.
So, finally, desolate, she sat alone
Waiting to disappear.

© 2002 Pam H. Murray

June 18, 2002