Secret path


A local walk I like to think is my own.

How quiet is the forest.

Beside the brook, I hear cracking hogweed, like tiny castanets.

And rustling grasses looking like fairy tassles.

I see illuminating, floating gold dipped seed dust, filtered in ribbons between stately trees.

Scratching dry earth with a hawk’s feather, it feels worn like old leather.

How quiet is the forest.