Wednesday, 22 May 2013

What I writ on my holidays - Part 4

Continuing my stream of bucolic thoughts from here...

Spring in Woodchester Park

Steep wooded slopes hide
Rare box-tree copses,
Ancient yews and ramson swathes,
All bluebell-blanketed;
Here and there, violets, wood-anemone and columbine
Complete the palette,
Woven through with forest trails,
Snaking down to chain-strung ponds,
And still,
But for the raindrop ripples
And gentle wakes of drifting waterfowl -
Shadows of over-arching boughs
Loom large,
Darkly conifer-toothed -
A surprising moment of menace,
But fleeting
As squall gives way to sun -
Derelict boat-house now leaf-dapple lit,
Spider-spun window-shutters,
Walls web-claimed,
Rusted hitching-hooks remain beneath,
A reminder of more rowboat-rowlocked days
Passed in quiet contemplation
Of the bark-brown and greening
Capability of trees.

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