his knees weary, bones that ache, he moves towards the warmth
following footsteps laid he makes his way through the forrest growth, his hands are cold
listening to sounds of new, hearing whispers of our old souls
he finds his tree, waits out the storm
...
Read full text
'This our life exempt from public haunt Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones and good in everything.' Wordsworth