In the woods I see things
that others cannot see,
beyond the ferns and sycamores,
and places dreamt to be.
It can take a minute
for it all to come clear,
but gradually the visions
remind you why you’re here.
And what, you may ask,
is it that I can discern?
If only I could give you these
memories to relearn.
I see the farmer’s toil,
pulling stones up out of the earth,
to build low-lying walls
that protected their worth.
I see barberry, beech,
laurel and hazel in the mix,
stretching out for sunlight,
to get their daily fix.
There are crinkles, rough bark,
all those bends in the backs,
of endless pine and hearty oak,
slowly starting to crack.
And walking trodden dirt
light sprinkling upon bowed leaves,
I can see how we can slow
all that we perceive.
I hear a few things too,
revealing what my eyes can’t see,
and the messages come forth
quite clearly to me.
A cricket in the grass,
birds chirruping away,
a soft breeze tickling through the trees,
heralding a new day.
My footsteps on hard soil,
the slurping in a muddy spot.
The creaking of old limbs
above forget-me-nots.
And the pop-pop of a Harley
on the road below,
echoing through the valley
for everyone to know.
I hear the stories shared,
over warm candlelight.
I see the stories no one knows,
forgotten in the night.
But there’s no way for me
to give them back to you—
you just have to take the steps,
and go where your nature’s true.
— ❧ —
