A wood, cars, silence, no knowing.
is there a rite of direction I should know, do druids expect revelation?
Do I? Nothing.
We, my son and I follow a path and head through dappled light into a
wilderness of woodland paths with no direction to follow. We strike out
boldly, listening, looking , more alert than ever we were on the motorway.
Seeking we know not what.
How will we know he asks.
We will
Back at the cars a man, grey beard like me,
I'm Brian he says.
We smile, we know.
Brian shows us a path we would never have found.
Down a road, through a path, across a hill, into trees.
Suddenly hidden amongst trees are tents.
each alone but somehow together.
We meet, names are shared
Impacts felt and held.
We make a place in the centre on the edge
the wood making a mockery of the ordered lines we arrogantly call
civilisation.
Time stops and bends into its own way and doesn't recover until some miles
into the homeward journey a lifetime away.
leaves are everywhere stiff brown underfoot,
soft massed under bed
green dappled overhead
smooth, furry, prickly to touch
named, unnamed
there to be
on the ledge fire lightens the night
throwing age old sentiments across the years
we speak deep to a place rarely addressed and rest in being heard
the hearing and listening reaches into the weekend
uncovering knowledge of trees from one who knows,
wisdom of wood from their own soul
meeting of ancestors to those making the journey
laughter in sharing delight and generosity
the road stretches away
carrying us to another place
but with a different knowledge
and a closeness
that we came to collect
without knowing.
Peter |
