Summer

 

I entered the wood by the gate from the old field
It stood quiet in the still warm air
The sun finally broke through in the heavy air outside
But light did not reach the floor here, 
A gatekeeper shuffled her wings though and took to the air into the field sun on her wings again
I went deeper into the soft warm damp wild wood
Passing the outer ring of holly , hawthorn, rowan and elder – into the high centre to where
the columns of the ancient beech trees reached gratefully to the sky.
My feet stirred an earth of ancient leaves and rotting mast
The great grey trunks lifted a green cathedral vault high over my head
Here and there a pillar of oak joined in keeping the roof above me  
In the vast space of this holy place I was alone
Save for the dryad spirits of the trees themselves 
Here light flickered through the leaves, here was light in the heart of the wood
Light enough to give hope:  green and silver:
Not enough to let the faded gold carpet be disturbed by other trees
When the vaults above turned gold, this would be the place
Of the hidden ones – as the reds, purples and deadly pale yellows 
Of the mushrooms broke though the floor as the world turned
But for now
It is the high time, of long days, gentle rains, golden sun, the time of plenty
Now the wood dances with joy.  In the corner of my eye, could it be the dryad’s dance too?
Now the time to rest, to rebuild our tired spirits in this holy wood’s high centre