Verdant missiles Launching through the cracks Of grim concrete slabs The colour of the Cold War And dictatorships Seasonal insurrection Starting early this year The revolution is here – And the climate changed.
I wrote this piece as an experiment. I would love to hear your thoughts.
I felt it was an insult that each new street was named after a different species of tree they chopped down a lasting dedication to rapid decimation of the ancient woodland and hedgerow their deaths were dealt so swiftly that the hawthorn berries didn’t even get time to bleed.
Now when I walk past Oak Avenue, Ash Drive & Beech Terrace each brimming with life I think of the bricks, mortar and glass I believe the woodland remains just in a different guise and the dedication isn’t an insult but a celebration of what came before that the trees that once thrived there are a solid foundation for new roots to form.
Thanks for taking the time to read this poem, feel free to leave a comment if you wish.
Zero degrees C in the peak of midwinter we wrapped up warm in wool and polyester pulled on our boots thick with suede upper and gripping rubber soles primed and ready to walk the forest its floor frosted white glamourising the natural litter of fallen acorns and amber needles we held each others hand through our scandi grey gloves a) for support since I was clumsy and b) for love we looked out over the blank frozen fields and into the feeble glare of a weakened winter sun some chimneys breathed in the distance a sign of life going on while time stood still as we tightened our hands our minds raced to what the future would hold luckily for me I still get to hold you.
Thanks for reading. Thanks to freestocks on unsplash for use of the image.
of filter coffee and croissants warm and buttery lazily absorbing Saturday’s news through inked fingers and papercuts whilst audibly inhaling songs from the twentieth century we wear chunky scratching knits and chunkier cotton socks that fill well worn walking shoes with rusted suede uppers we fill noisy metal bottles with water filtered through plastic beads then tightly pack them into a roll away backpack awaiting adventure that beckons from paths littered with burnt leaves and forest floor detritus our casual meandering scored with the sound of mulching mud under rubber soles the scurry of squirrels and swaying branches memories made and recorded in 16:9 high definition then the return voyage home in time to prep a veritable feast but that’s a ritual, i’ll keep to myself.
Thanks for taking your time to read this poem. I love hearing your thoughts and any feedback you may have.
the bronze leaves are tenderly hurtling to the forest floor a patchwork quilt of misfortune and malaise sewn and laid by rattling clunking gusts the ash, beech and birch succumb to their own stark beauty
This poem was originally published on my Instagram/Twitter to celebrate National Poetry Day
A cornflower sky littered haphazardly with spluttering wispypearls housing an effortless sun watched over us as we dangled and dropped twigs of beech, ash and elm into the dawdling waters below our knees planted porous on the sandstone bridge absorbing some of it’s history our eyes followed the branches ferrying along the river stroking and slapping against limestone and basalt we were quiet and thoughtful wondering where they’d end up wondering where we’d end up and although sometimes silence can be deafening on that day the silent moments we shared only spoke of our serenity with each other.
we mourned all summer when they decimated the woodland murdered ash, oak, sycamore & beech all in the pursuit of profit the lives lost from the hedgerow collateral damage to make capital gains no concern for refugees concrete foundations poisoned the rich earth bracken & bleeding brambles scythed down by strong yellow tanks cheerful and bright grim reapers sullying soil and sod bricks, mortar, slate & glass now occupying forces and in final insult they named the new avenues and boulevards after the casualties they inflicted not in memoriam but as a warning that in wars between man and nature man will win because man’s nature is death.
Taking a carefree stroll through an inviting burrow of oak, ash, cedar, elm and yew I allow myself to talk to the trees and travel through time the history stored in trunks and roots is phenomenal whispered secrets shared by the world filtered through canopies of bronze, emeralds and golds could fill all the libraries in all the world woodland sentinels silently observing passers-by witnessing the same litany of mistakes made by multiple generations the main one being that your present is already your past and the future is now.
This is something I’ve learned by talking to trees while travelling through time.
I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this poem, inspired by wandering in the woods and listening. I’d love to know your thoughts.