Fernwhisper

The golden beeches shed their dying leaves, As if to let them fall is a relief. The fading forest rustles and it heaves, And lays a brilliant carpet in its grief. I wade across the amber forest floor, And think of things I simply couldn't hold. The leaning trees surrender what they wore, And gracefully deliver up their gold.

The lichen spreads its patience on the stone, A silent scripture written in the chill. It asks for nothing, thriving all alone, Upon the rocky surface, calm and still. I watch it growing slowly in the frost, A quiet creature bound to ancient rock. Before the creeping ages were engrossed, It learned to live outside the hurried clock.

Where sweeping rivers lose their steady guide, And salty oceans greet the rushing stream, I walk the muddy margin of the tide, To gather fragments of a broken dream. A piece of rope, a splintered wooden beam, The water sorts its treasures on the sand. I wear my heavy coat beside the stream, To see what lies discarded on the land. A quiet peace settles between the shores, A middle ground between the salt and sweet. Right here the ocean opens up its doors, And leaves a gentle grounding at my feet.

To stand beneath a gently swaying pine, That touched the sky three hundred years ago, Is sensing how a human life is fine, If given space and quiet room to grow. The tree has only stood and drank the rain. I lay my trembling hand upon its bark, And feel a living anchor through the pain, That stretches deep into the fragrant dark.

I pace the muddy reaches of the fen, Recording every rustle of the reed. The heavy water mirrors heaven's den, And flows wherever ancient currents lead. This simple work restores my restless mind, A patience that the daily grind erased. The marsh outlasts the watches of mankind, Unbothered by our desperate, hollow haste. I fold my notebook as the sun goes down, A heron wades into the fading blue. I shed the frantic worries of the town, And find a place where solitude is true.