by Sandra Moran

From the top car park, on a wet and murky day,

the clockwise circular path we take.

As we walk on the rain ceases, and there

in front of us is reflection in the lake.

It sits so still, with spots of water

making circles small

Dark lines so straight don’t mimic

the trees standing tall.

Gaps of light appear, amongst the mist

that obscurs our view.

The ground beneath our feet is spongy,

soggy, not morning dew.

The stream meanders, full of life

                but remaining unseen

The vegetation grows wild, an artist’s

                palette of many greens

The rowan tree hands with branches, leaves

                swimming in the water.

And across the lake are many

                sons and daughters

The moss and lichen have lived here

                for many a year.

And high above a baby rowan nestles

                on the pine, no one stirs

Deep in the bracken, brambles are left

                untouched, unpicked

I try to steal a taste, but leave

                with fingerspricked

A green bearded branch, old knarled fingers

                clawing the ground

And from up above a slow, steady

                dripping sound

The oak leaves are crying from the

                weight of the rain

And a knobbly gremlin sits hidden, it is

                too feeling the pain

The rain again ceases but water still trickles,

                streams and fall run and run

The tops of the trees are bent, leaning,

                fighting for sun.

Behind a tree, a fallen branch, with imagination

                a rhino, a crocodile, fingers bent.

In the undergrowth, a lair; making it has

                time been spent.

The sycamore’s changing from green to yellow

with spots of brown

Preparing for winter, hibernation, not

                wearing a gown.

A fallen tree stapled with coins; love messages

                or good luck charms.

At least the tree has died, so there

is no harm

(We stop for lunch and meditate in silence

‘The wind whistles though our ears

The water flows, onward and onward

Human voices float in the air

Followed by a dog’s sharp bark,

A little bird’s chirp, a froggy croak

A tear falls from the sky.

 

Time now to venture on.)

 

A silver birch has fallen and faded

But to everyone’s delight, a bonsai erupted.

Cones on wet roots make for a slippery way

‘Stepping stones’ I hear someone say.

As we climb high the sun peeps through

Making Tarn Hows a spectacular view

On the headland, an army of trees

Straight at ‘Attention’, no one on their knees.

 

                The mist has gone

                The sun has shone

                                and everywhere ‘gleams’