WILD WOOD

 
The stream seeks shade,
rakes its sandstone bed
and stirs the dark pools,
hidden under lichened trees,
and lime green bracken.
It feels safe here.
 
The wood envelops me,
sighing its mantra
of unmasking, revealing
its new-ribbed leaves,
greeting the season,
confident in its rooted bed.
 
If I conspire in its unmaking,
threaten its timeless being,
then winter’s dark-wet leaves
on the hillside may let slip
their purpose. Ancient light
falls slowly here, much is hidden.