People Who Visit Woods Poem by Sheena Blackhall

People who visit woods,
Should be open as flowers
In the bluebell night,
In the moon-bright
Owl-cruel hours.
For woods are as old as oceans,
Holy as tall cathedrals,
Winds weave dreams and skies
In their woody towers.

People who visit woods,
Should go there creeping,
Like the one-eyed worm
Or the stripe-backed, shuffling brock.
When the fern in the trees is sleeping
The dew is forming
A single, brilliant drop.

People who visit woods,
Should go rejoicing,
Like the ghost of the hare
That leaps through the barley crop.

People who visit woods,
Should come like whispers,
Be like the ear of the corn
That the night sings through.

People who visit woods,
Should come like pilgrims
Into the heart of a shrine
That a god comes to.