The Wood

by Rebecca Hawkes

It sweeps on for miles, it seems,

This creature, of green depth,

Green shadow, and green gold,

For miles, its bulk, heavy with pines,

And lightened only by snatches of pale sun,

In clearings, and in the movement of branches,

Seems to stretch….

 

There are places,

Near the heart of this creature,

Where you can look, in every direction,

And see nothing but slender pillars,

Slender, straight, and dark topped pillars,

Carved beautifully, in an ancient style,

That whilst growing perpetually

Never seems to grow out of date.

The style of the wood.

 

And there are places where there are pools,

Of green water,

In the wood,

That look although they have lain stagnant,

And still, and unchanging,

For years, and years.

And you can throw stones into their centres,

And watch the waters disrupted, froth,

And surge, slightly, and watch waves,

Rush up and down the entire length of the dark pool,

And lap at the edges, and then drift back,

Once more into sleeping silence.

In the wood.

 

There are places,

Where there are people,

Wandering, perhaps, through the greenness,

And the blackness,

And the dappled gold,

And the fiery seas,

Of orange ferns,

Of this strange creature, the wood,

As people, I like to think, have always done,

With dogs running freely,

And wildly, and with smiles on their faces,

And, perhaps, with a golden greenness growing,

Inside of them, too,

In the woods.