Woodlands

Singing Autumn of grassy hillside in little woods. Grey misty
mystery of early morning dew damp. Refreshing the senses with natures
early tonic. Air thick with fresh beginnings. Mind like mist, yet
awakening. One lone raven caws in the scenic background. In front hilly
horizon, tree-lined and house scattered. Grey blue orange skies of
sunrise, and sound of distant dual carriageway. Even at this time in
the morning; cars zooming their chaos across the silent earth
air.

Leafy whisper talks of natures Buddha-like knowing. Grass cushioned
floor is where I sit, I close my eyes for a moment in serenity. I sense
wild fairy elf spirits dancing all around un-seen.

Ben looks very happy, panting his canine contentment at the world. Ben
a picture postcard of the shephards dog. Big bushy mane and long coat,
ears pricked and head erect, all wolf-like, beautifully animated gentle
canine friend of mine, gazing over hill, sharing my view. Lieing in the
grass in Egyption gaurdian fashion, front paws carved like the sphinxes
feet.

Little bird flies by, trailing tender wings across the blue grey sky. A
lone raven flies slow and majestic over the distant horizon. I wish
sometimes that I could be a bird or a human with wings. Such an
expression of freedom, flying seems.

Peaceful it is here, not like the concrete stained city world. I feel
all peaceful here, like God himself gazing out across the dreamy
horizon of eternity. Old ancient and timeless.

Bird song sounds - I hear what they say. But how can I put such a
musical langauge into words. I know in my heart what they say, and I
wish there was less of the chaotic concrete and more of the beauty of
hill and woods. Less of the traffic noises and more of the birdsong
noises and quiet hill breezes.

Clovers on the ground all around, maybe if I'am lucky I will find a
four leaf clover, and then I'll make a wish.

The leaves are my carpet, the tall dancing grass, my theatre. The
shadowy trees stand around like silent people watching, cloaked and
ancient. Knowledge keepers, tapped into the holy spirit consiousness,
disguised as treesap. Silent watchers of this illusory world.

White butterfly of darting flickering light, how come your still alive?
Metamorphasized too late, missed your mates, now you have to live out
your short life alone. Lazy butterfly. I wonder if your short butterfly
life feels like a hundred years to us.

A shotgun fires somewhere in the distance. They like shooting things
these farmers. Surely they can't eat all the things they shoot. Poor
animals they just want to happily live like you. You with your unfair
advantage of shotgun and bloodhounds. Though to you it gives you
sporting delight, to them its not much fun. You with your loud noisy
gun.

Silvery web of spiders silk, reflected like a haiku in green of clover
grass, long bending grass. I wonder what lives in this grass. A myriad
different life-forms I guess, another world of insects, bacteria,
amoeba, worms and little plants.

I spot another silvery spider web in a young tree, like a fairy
painting of nature it is.

Little spider with orange abdomen crawls across my page. Where did you
come from I wonder? Don't want to crush you with my pen. I gently guide
you to the safety of the ground.

My feet are wet from grass still soaked by yesterdays rain. Must buy
some new boots today.

Long bushy tail of squirrel looks like hairy worm rising and falling in
the long grass. Good job Ben is looking the other way. Otherwise he'll
be charging at you with hunting instinct, and giving you an early
morning fright.

Some tall thin trees look like ostriches dancing in the Autumnal
breeze. Reminds me of days camping on the Isle of Mull.

Needle pine and silver birch, and lonely sad reeds that bend in the
wind. Bushes with leaves that look like many hands beckoning me into
their woodland world.

Oh sky of blue and vapour white, how can I begin to describe your
might? Imprinted I see a solitary birds flight, and sky you always look
majestic, be it day or night.

Oh lovestruck images of Zion sky. Grey misty fields that ask the
question why? When will the insane soup of babble end, and people see
through the webs of lies and deciet, which blind their eyes. Oh the
only thing wrong here is that distant dual carriageway singing its ugly
song, it don't belong, and it always reminds me that the high speed
chase of money is going on. But the green islands of nature sing, and I
hear her voice and love her so. Shes strong she will survive, though I
feel sad that we may not.

Old wise crow she sqawks in old moorish tree. I think I hear her young
calling from the nest. Busy mother bird always working without
rest&;#8230; be blessed.

Joyous I find a four leaf clover and silently I make a wish.

Then chilly wind fingers on nape of neck, and grumbling pain of hunger,
tell me to go home.