Where is your main focus?
the tree tops, or the sky beyond;
the songs of individual birds, or the bird orchestra;
the breeze on your skin, or the rustling of leaves in the trees;
the aroma of last year’s detritus, or of this year’s verdancy;
the path’s jagged flints, or its earthen firmness.
Or do you focus on the whole?
as a backcloth for your thoughts, or an escape from your thoughts;
as a place of solitude, or a place to share;
as a place to raise your pulse, or a place to lower your pulse;
as a place to seek creative inspiration, or simply a place to be,
as a place from which to zone in, or to zone out.
Who cares to analyse it?
There’s you, there’s me, there’s the woodland,
and it’s one big miracle that we’re all still here,
At first glance, when I saw this tin dish atop a tree-stump in the woods, it played tricks upon my eyes and I mistook it for an impressive piece of fungi. It has obviously been there for some time as the ivy is doing its tenacious best to bind it to the stump until the last piece of rust has crumbled to red dust.
I wonder who put the dish there in the first place. A forgetful camper, perhaps? Or someone kind enough to leave the birds a bath? Maybe a litter lout? Who knows?
Whatever the answer to these questions, I’m glad to note that Nature is winning the battle with this particular piece of junk.
Tree-house woven out of sticks
Children’s secret camp
Where light seeps, trees speak.
Woodland spirits, dryads, fauns
shape-shift clothed in green.