Standing under the ancient boughs,
The winter sun lights the ground.
Auburn and copper beneath my feet,
Where my soul and nature meet.
I run my hands on the mossy oak,
Who stands above all the woodland folk,,
Life supporting and full of wisdom,
This centenary king of his kingdom.
The woodland creeks and gently sways,
Where deer forage and ponies graze.
Squirrels try and find their cache,
And with their finds off they dash!
Tits and finches forage and feed,
Amongst moss and lichen laden trees.
Owls and buzzards rest in the branches,
Before making their hungry advances
Tree etchings from a bygone time,
Witches, kings and "forever be mine",
If this woodland could only talk,
Instead my imagination accompanies my walk.
Now here I am in this moment,
In the winter woodland where the seeds lie dormant.
So very grateful to "just be"
As I feel my ancestors quietly following me.
Written by Jen Blaxall,