Poem 130 – The Wood

Walking beneath the canopy above,
I stop and listen. Slowly I begin,
To hear it breathe, the branches rise and fall,
And in its breeze, translucent leaves make play.

A bee drones past ignoring my intrusion,
Whilst down below the moles dig on unseen
Their earthy mounds the only indication,
Of their lightless subterranean dreams.

A flap and avian caw as something falls,
And ricochets, until the undergrowth,
Receives it with its eager spiky arms,
Concealing it within a dense embrace.

The trees begin to stir, swaying in slow,
Rhythm to a beat that sounds unheard.
Even the elders join their patient dance,
Their ancient limbs cracking as they flex.

A cole tit reassures his youngsters whilst,
He flits around the local bounds, with loud,
Beeping that finds an answering call,
Cried proudly, deep within their concealed nest.

Somewhere a stream trickles its way across,
The wood, its flow, the artery that serves,
To nourish this green creature I stand within,
Alive and other, beyond our frame of reference.

Exploring woodland in Hertford the other day, I stopped alone for a moment, and realised I was anything but…

© Ben Quant 2022

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