My path is an easy one this morning as I walk through the woods. Last night’s rain lifted the whole sphere of the woods so that the birds and animals dart ahead and to the side of my silent walk on the mossy footpath. All of the ferns have unfurled their tight coil of spring leaves into fans that waft noiselessly to and fro as I pass and I remember my youth gathering the bedding for my tent.
And twist it tightly as I walk
The paths of ancient days and ways
I walk and talk myself to hear
An echoed voice and steps in woodland clear
Before my leap the badgered pathway of another day
The blossomed stem besets my gaze
For soon will come the summers haze
As in my workshop I look out upon the sea and mountains roundabout.
The green is almost overwhelming now and flowers have subsided in subtle patches in the woodland shades and everglades. Will these woods once again yield my raw stock for a table or two, or the legs for a Windsor chair. Who knows in years to come how and from where we will harvest our wood for work. It would be good to cut cautiously and with sustainable concern as they did in ancient times long gone. I would that these woods could be coppiced woods of different species. Perhaps they will.