Written as a tribute to Charles Causley's Eden Rock. Hopefully it works without the last line, which is rightfully his.
Whitwell Woods
We entered through a narrow gate
and burst into an open glade;
cool, still, half-lit air
invited us to tread on trails
thick with the bones of trees
and green, wind-scattered leaves.
Trunks, rough-skinned guardians,
told of ancient times. Above,
song filled the canopy as if angels
lay beyond. Roots heaved
through the dirt like Pacific
humpbacks breaking the surf.
The path narrowed and forked.
Each direction held new
journeys. Underfoot the leaves
turned brown. The spots of sun
no longer guide our way
and the ground grows soft.
In the meandering brook a frog
flicks the reflected leaves,
breaking cover. The stones,
cloaked in moss, are worn.
We hold hands and step across;
out of the woods into illumination.
Tim Fellows 2020
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