Dingle through the seasons

We went in the winter, just after the floods*,
we went in the spring when the opening buds
of the trees, arching towers
stood high over surges of sparkling flowers;
and now in high summer, growth rampant is found
in the paths and the fields and the fringes around,
but down in the dingle, which shady trees fill,
apart from the birdsong, and brook, all is still,
with only a little ground cover, and mud –
still wet and quite squelchy in parts, but no flood –
we can walk by the clear, stoney brook, watch its slow
rippling, shallow, meandering flow;

then up the steep side of the gulley, the gallery    
path we select for a circling return
(from there, we looked down, when we came here before,
through twigs to the stream and the water-logged floor)
but now full of fronds, that obstruct us, of fern
(hope there’s no ticks!),
and tangles of brambles entwine,
entangle, confine    
(why didn’t we carry our weed-hacking sticks!?)

We exit the dingle with wounds of the jungle,
emerging refreshed from this well-hidden glen    
to everyday life, and our duties again.

*http://www.abctales.com/story/rhiannonw/holywell-dingle-wet-winter