Woods Poem by Conor Dowd

The woods today are cool and calm
and waves creep toward the shore,
they lap and linger,
beat on beat,
and offer more -
a geometry of sound and nature.

A cold November breeze plays on my cheek
as I gorge myself on all around me,
I feel it fill me deep,
all earth and sky,
leaf and life,
I wait to hear their language
and I lean to hear their voice.

Only a whisper now
but I have time to wait,
to linger and to hesitate
and compose myself within these winter shadows,
green shades which deepen, fade and rise
and watch me as I walk,
disguised.

I must be cautious and collected
and prepared to understand
when childish fables comes to mind...
But never mind,
they unwind themselves before my eyes -

The woods are peopled now with voices,
hidden music, magic sounds and pulses.
The trees are filled with dumb intelligence,
they watch and wait for weary travellers.

And everything is guarded, protected and patrolled
by a sense of presence in the green beyond me.

I leave the woods now
with eyes upon me and beyond me
and a cold November sun behind me.