Close spaced Beeches

Whisper.

Transcient scenes.

Quick appearances

removed, flicker still.

No sound.

 

Rain melts the grey dull paths

Revealing rivened beauty.

Shiny blackened;

Deep as treacle.

 

Air close; the wind spits.

Something’s brewing.

Growing softly, kept at bay.

Landscape flattened, grey.

 

Wood rotten, moist and springy.

Gouged, knotted, once a life.

Seeps its body ever deeper, into

Sunken earth surrounding.

 

Withered, broken life around it.

Thank the goodness of decay.

Drip-fed slowly, embracing easily

Their free-flow of sustenance.