When you’re alone the wind
takes on a character,
Mingled with the road that
could almost be wind too.
And birds.
One a blunted pinprick,
The next a creaking door,
And then a whining nasal
choke
Pleads that they chirp no
more.
The stream chuckles
quickly and softly
Censored by a sharp avian
tut.
Across the stream, the
light is green
Amidst the trees, at
awkward angles
Aloofly offering leaves
for gifts.
But not the vine:
high-diving,
Hitting the absent water
with even gestures of green.
Climb higher. A tree is
felled:
Its fallen branches
parallel.
Too straight somehow.
Another bows its mossy arm
To wish the ramblers well.
The ivied storybook oak
Looks perfect in the damp.
Its smooth and
well-considered curves
Stand proud in a kingdom
of dishevelled ferns.
When you’re alone the wind takes on a character,
Mingled with the rain that could almost be wind too.
