Woodland Walk
Windfall
branches, scattered kindling,
A
thin March sun
Prising
the canopy open.
We
drop down among mossy trunks
Of
ancient trees
On
a carpet of wild garlic.
The
river's roar is monumental,
Overwhelming,
A
tactile sound that demands exploration
And
explore we do
From
a distance, eyes only entering
The
swirl
Discovering
the mania of frantic water.
The
pools bringing
The
white broth of late winter to a
Rapid
boil.
And
the insane laughter of the rising wind
Splits
the hairs on necks
Sending
us back the way we come.
Retracing
our steps,
The
garlic absorbing the shock of our
Booted
footfall,
We
climb up through the ailing light where
Dark
clouds are closing the canopy.
Leaving
the river below us we continue,
The
roar of water
Receding,
receding until all that remains
Is
the beat of our hearts
And
a residual sound like the muffled boom
Of
oceans confined to a random shell.
Committed To Memory
We
lace the path with boots, shadow limbs and walking poles.
Advancing,
we take our position on the hillside.
Looking
out for trig points and pillow mounds, like scent hounds
We
seek out landscape,
Tracking
the miles until the distance is halved.
Our
ascent is gradual, our approach the sudden widening
Of
the eye.
Far
away mountains, valley's shaped by random trees,
Earth
shifting beneath our feet,
The
air alive, pulsating with the hum of silence.
A
moment yellow with the sun in it's belly,
Burned
onto to the retina, committed to memory.
The Visitor
She
is a regular visitor, the only one that accepts me
For
who I really am.
A
bruised loner slumped between slurps of coffee
And
last night's dreams.
Sometimes
I think she only visits out of pity,
After
all,
Why
else would she come to this lonely man in
The
lonely garden?
To
get the neighbours tongues a-wagging, to push
My
wife towards insane jealousy?
Here
she comes again emerging from her boudoir
In
the privet,
Tapping
dancing on the table in front of me, expelling
Dewdrops
with a shake of her head,
Blinking
the last stars from her eyes, her face flushed
With
a lingering segment of moon.
And
now, like every morning, this tiny bird with the big voice,
Brings
me a song
The
shape of a harp, a melody the colour of apple blossom,
Smelling
of dawn and honeysuckle,
Measuring
my existence in a wingspan of inches.
Dennis Moriarty