A recent visit to southern England reminded me of how much I enjoy woodland, something that's in short supply on the little island of Guernsey. I grew up on the edge of wooded countryside in Northern Ireland, back in the days when children played outdoors from dawn to dusk during school holidays, so I have a deep-seated fondness for that type of environment.
The woods in this poem are of a less welcoming kind: a metaphor, perhaps, for that vast and unnerving unknown that exists just beyond our everyday consciousness.
THE WOODS
The woods are dark and deep, it’s true,
but are not lovely. I peer in
to watch light die out tree by tree
and, branch by branch, darkness accrue:
a furry dark, black as moleskin,
that seems to watch me balefully
as though I were some pausing prey
that dare not either fight or flee,
but, mesmerised, stands statue-still.
I shout and hear the ricochet
of my voice fly from tree to tree.
Nothing answers, nor ever will.
For a very different kind of verse visit my Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564/
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