Footfalls muffled by leaf-mould
Springy turf of grass 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 fingers circling higher branches
And within the greater silence
Where there is no bird-song
Nor any rodent scuttlings
That seem to carry any distance
Through the empty forest
There penetrates the faintest crackling
Of twigs and logs upon a fire
A simple sound of comfort
And promise of human warmth
The smells of damp and ash
And simple cooking, 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 vegetation
Near the stream
A lonely retreat
Far from any crowd
Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013
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