Sunday, October 23, 2016

The Gift of the Forests




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.

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