Smoke In The Woods
Footfalls muffled
by leaf-mould
Springy turf of mulch
and lichen
Amongst the dark
and louring trees
Their trunks tall and
straight
Like rigid columns
Holding up the
canopy
That shades the
lower cultures
Bud-laden, thick
and lush
The saplings and
the bushes
Of the
under-growth
And among the monumental
beeches
Pierced by glittering
Flickering
sunlight shafts
Hangs a hazy skein
of wood-smoke
Diaphanous, gauzy
Floating, drifting
slowly
Its lingering
strands
Fingering higher
branches
And within the
greater silence
Where there is no
bird-song
Nor any rodent
scuttlings
That can carry any
distance
Through the depth
of empty forest
There penetrates
the faintest crackling
Cracking twigs and
logs upon a fire
A simple sound of
comfort
And a promise of human
warmth
The smells of damp
and ash
And simple cooking
become stronger now
Than natural
woodland aromas
Betraying the
location
Of a camp-site
under canvas
Hidden in a hollow
Among the dark,
dank greenery
Of wet, mouldering
vegetation
Near the gurgling stream
A lonely retreat
Far from any crowd
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