A lovely poem by Siobhan Farrell

Wind in the Poplars

I first heard that sound when I was five years old,
a fresh arrival on the doorstep of a new country,

adjusting to sometimes unkind and unfamiliar  

patterns of strangers, a cement landscape and

a way of living that I tried to nestle firmly

into my young and eager heart as I so wanted to fit in,
to shed any differences and slide unnoticed into

the geography of my Toronto neighbourhood.

On those first summer days,
I would lie awake, listening to the sound of
the poplars outside my window as they rustled
and shook with a soft and gentle whoosh,
soothing, achingly lovely to my ears as I
strained to hear every pattern and note as
they moved and danced, shuddering and trembling
with an intense and passionate life force.

That sound has stayed with me as
I dream of it during the dark of winter, where no
leaves hug the bare lonely branches.
It is the sound that I associate with summer
with sweetness, cherries campfires,
bare arms, shedding of socks and all
other  clothing that binds, rushing water,
days that last forever and listening to
music stretched out on green fragrant grass.
That sound of the wind in the poplars
is the music, while  never played in concert halls
or outdoor stages that will always makes my heart sing
and bring to me the simple gift of
infinite grace and beauty.