The Wood; Secret Places

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Nature Poems

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the well-worn paths
have become rivulets
channels of mud-soil
the rich leaf-mould of recent years
a soup for slipping in
so we
find the ways
where few have walked
and take our chances
being snared by brambles
and we find
a secret haven
where the leaf carpet's not trodden
into mud
and where the private bird-calls
are for us alone
spindling above us
the still naked twigs
stick their skinny fingers
into the sky
and crane upwards
in a lace lattice
that spells the winter beauty of trees
and the leaf-littered
mud-rich loam
writhing with roots
measures the passage of water
the passage of time
where some still moments
can fill our hearts
with the sky


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