On these wodded hills, the narrow trails
Snake a path through the forests dense.
Which shedding the cloak of glinting mists,
Beckon me: into ceaseless silence.
A silence so still, it can be heard.
The rustling, humming, chattering,
Scuttling, buzzing, chirping silence:
The sprightly stillness of life itself.
What stillness is this: that soothes the mind
but sharpens the senses, that does soak
Me in its sounds and scents and sights:
The green-brown fragrance of mountain oak.
I listen to better hear myself breathe-
Not mere air, but the scent of the trees.
I see not mere trees, but living woods
That soar skywards in willowy ease.
"Follow the hooves of the horses
That have trodden this path."
Like a modern Gretel, I keep the course
In search of a Dolphin's nose.
Peek-a-boo: hills now hidden from sight-
Shrouded by films of mist. Yet on I press
Through carpets of crunchy leaves.
For a lofty prize awaits at the peak.
Gasping, I arrive-
And find myself changed.
Now become a giant,
I tower over the pines.
As a cloud skirts my ear.
Brobdingnagian, no less.
The sylvan spirits in their leafy glens-
Indulgent, smile:
At my flights of fancy.
As at an ant that exults
On scaling a rock.
