Motes of green drift through the air,
An eternal dance, mysterious and fair.
Drawn to out home from the wellspring of life,
A balm for the ravages of everyday strife.

Brothers, sisters, family all,
Ever expanding, never small.
We gather in this hallowed place,
And against any coming storm we brace.

Nestled deep amongst the trees,
Leaves singing in the breeze,
Growing strong the loam
It towers over all, our heart, our home.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 15th of Lleian, in the year 483 MA.