Under blue skies, the live oaks were just trees - hearty and expansive trees.
But in the feeble light of waning days or the frequent forays of morning fog, the rangy and sinuous moss-draped limbs became a Lovecraftian monster, head stuck into the damp loam in an attempted retreat to the underworld.
And if one stood still enough, those limbs just might start to writhe.
This entry was posted in poem, Poetry and tagged Imagination, Live Oak, poem, poetry, tree by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.
