The evening sun scorches the shade.

The trees, in their glade, are forced to choose;

Stand tall and brave - or turn to crave

the cool safety of the dusk.

 

Like soldiers from another age, they are proud and tall,

Defenders of nature with their all.

Their bark tells the story, of seasons full of change.

 

Frost. Ice. Mud. Heat. Few, then a lot... of peoples feet.

 

The leaves, every hue of green and lime

like comic book slime

I stand transfixed.

I feel the sound of potential, of possibility 

of hope all around.

I am rooted.To. The. Ground.

Slowly, my eyes look down,

The path through the trees all mottled and brown.

 

I climb the stile and enter the field.

I stop.

I hear a curlew in the meadow, callng to its mate,

the day quite late,

its looking to settle.

Its nest, a simple scrape amid the nettles,

Its hidden but I know its there.

 

A flash of beige and sudden clack - the Jay screetches back

at the Kestrel circling above.

I see the grass-scape, a city of different levels.

Caterpillar escalators,

Spider web ropes

It fills me with infinite hope.

 

The seasons. The sun.

The potential that comes

with a rhythm of life that defies the odds;

- tadpoles into frogs

- grey clay from bogs

- rich meadow from grassy sods.