Photo by Gerda Arendt courtesy of Wikipedia - I didn't take my phone!

February woods: a poem

Photo by Gerda Arendt, courtesy of Wikipedia, because I left my phone at home

The Sunday morning woods are soft

with mud and mulch to hush our steps

and stroking shine of shooting green

Lichen’s sleeves glint crystalline

Moss smears trunks upward, reaches wide,

knits high and low

and beech leaves faired by morning light

smile the colour of my grandson’s hair.

The tenderness connects

like the lane-side hedge stripped bleak

and holding on

But when I touch, within bark’s jagged break

the newly-minted gold’s no sponge

And all around they merge –

resilience, fragility,

the man-made thorns that annexe and defy

caught up in life,

the then and now,

lightly threaded with song.

Quietly he says, “The trees are watching us.”

They’re wondering, I think, how we came to be so lost.

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