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.