in the heart of the Land.

this footpath has been left
to corrode with weeds;
it is green beneath my shoes, grass-y
and jagged. a battle
lost. The woods that surround it;
they, now they are infinite.
Tree-roots stretch and twine
under mossy turf,
branches reach aloft
to echo dappled shadows
across the undergrowth. Brambles lie here,
coltsfoot and wild garlic,
thick amongst the mulch
of autumn’s castaways. I
have always been fascinated
by the rotted skeletons of leaves;
delicate, they may corrode
at the merest touch. but
if treated carefully, they are
as bronze filigree, beautiful
and unique. It is so
with the carved tracery
of old trees, left silent
and forlorn
against the earth – their flesh
has been excised by flurried insects,
and the fluted columns of mushrooms
upon their flanks. There
are bluebells, here, daffodils and buttercups,
still green in sunlit clearings.
They splash blues and yellows
across a scene done in browns,
they lighten the air
against the deep, rich scent
of loam.