The Sound of the Birch Tree

I miss the sound of the birch tree swaying in the slightest wind,

though the wind was more than slight most days back then.

The howl would seep through the houses, blanketing the hills in freedom.

From one floor up, the distant glisten of orange lights would twinkle over the almost black landscape below, filling my eyes with pleasure.

A countryside filled with memories,

Stories of battles and love, life and death, repeated and encased throughout.

The sky above beckoned with chances and lust; it is the passion and vastness that enthrals.

The belt, shining brighter every night would make me feel home.

From the Opera house I looked to the same sky,

I saw Orion again and the heavy penetrating moon.

The light was as tranquil wherever I would be, but nothing could compare to that with the sound of that birch tree.

Ten years and forty miles I have drifted since then,

With polluted sky and baffled air consuming the towers of concrete grey.

My home was just a feeling,

Now just a memory.

Every now and then I see the faint belt of Orion trying to get through;

I hear sounds similar to that of the birch tree and a howl between sirens.

The light isn’t the same in this city.

The sound is just a murmur of cars racing;

The non-stop life I thought I needed to always hear.

The volume of life so severe that I would be cocooned by the safety in numbers theory let me down. 

As reminders die and time grows I consider returning to ten years ago, for nothing since has ever compared to the sound of that birch tree.