We find a rare side street with no restrictions
and park upon the pavement, leaving room
for pedestrians and vehicles to pass.
The tarmac’s tense beneath our feet, uptight,
and rigid with the rigours of modern life –
on view, it knows no peace and must perform.
Stepping through the curtain of a hedge
we fall into another realm, a relic
of ancient landscapes, lost and long forgotten.
No tarmac here beneath our feet, instead
bracken unfurls it’s fingers, reaches from
the softness of this springy earth to wave
its fronds towards the canopy above.
Beneath these trees we find a foreign ease –
or rediscover rest our strivings have displaced.
No regimented conifers in rows,
instead the gently scattered beech and birch
doze idly dreaming by the oak and hornbeam.
The wood is still. No breeze or foreign sound
intrudes upon its peaceful contemplation.
Only the conversation of the birds
above accompanies us. Here we are dumbed
as time unwinds, slows down and stops awhile,
a moment that transports us to the ancient
forest that straddled this fair land. If only
we could stay and stay our hands of old.

Last weekend we visited Epping Forest, somewhere I haven’t walked in since I was a child. Although the sun was out and it was unseasonably warm and bright, underfoot was boggy. The air was humid and still and our conversation was stilled.
(17.04.24)

© Ben Quant 2024
Photo by Diliff, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons