A Walk in the WoodsThe weather is warm, fine and clear,
On this Saturday late in march,
The car park of the woodlands beckons me,
Walking trails within are dry and firm,
Assorted types of tree in here,
I find oak, spruce, Scots pine and larch,
Some trees have been cut to just a stump,
Is this extreme pollarding, to get new growth?
Tall and thin, growing as bunches,
Competing for and racing upwards for the light,
I come across a small stream,
Shallow, slow and within steep banks,
There are lots of large dead trees,
Fallen to the horizontal plane,
Their roots exposed and showing how,
The sub soil is stony and sandy,
Small pieces of broken flint,
In the reflected sun they glint,
Catch the eye with a grey and off blue sheen,
The sharpness of medieval tools easily seen,
Snowdrops, are no more, they have gone,
Their bulbs expanding, through the summer,
Ready to split in the autmn, for the winters show,
Already they have been replaced by small white,
Almost daisy like flowers I do not know,
And there are lots of green leaves,
That will soon throw up a single flower stem,
Of pretty bluebells, that will carpet the woods,
On the edge of the footpaths, the nettles,
With tiny flowers of bright blue petals,
They are starting to show through,
And with that nasty cats smell that they have,
They live up to their reputation and cause a rash,
No dock leaves when you need them most,
Yellow and blue walking routes on a post,
Past small, deep green watered ponds,
That will soon be home to frogs and spawn,
A new generation in natures food chain,
Dry twigs that snap and crack underfoot,
Announcing your presence in this peacefull haven,
Of solitude and silently emerging leaf buds,
That will soon make this a much darker place,
Even on a bright spring, sunny day,
As the season races towards the month of may,
And then, mentally refreshed, and comtemplative,
I walk back to the car park, through the gate,
Damm the rat race, it can wait!
Mike