In Hazelborough Wood

You come upon them suddenly, those swathes of bluebells
intense in the clouded light,
in this stillness.

How many trees?
no two alike, each one special.
The smooth-trunked beeches are putting forth leaves.
How many dozens, hundreds of trees
beginning something new?

Squelching through the sodden grass,
along clayey paths that have not drained,
releasing fragrance of old leafmould
we sing, quavery voiced

Thula thula
As I went down in the river to pray
[this path is like a river]
and the one whose words I can't remember.

But it is peaceful sitting here,
as we eat our seeded bread,
our bramble jelly
and the birds call to one another.

Majestic trees,
twisted trees,
fallen logs with rough bark
and pretty caps of bright moss.

Cowslips, silverweed, cuckoo-flower.
Tawny brown tan dells
where boys make dens.

We splash through small puddles
edge gingerly round broad puddles
wet-haired, wet-footed
and we don't care.

I chant a silly ditty
composed by a child I once knew
and erupt in crazy laughter
into the silence of the wood.

Life's good
in Hazelborough Wood.