In England fair, in forests deep
Where badgers wander, squirrels play
And men do ramble, seeing some
But missing most brought by the day
In lands of southern Saxons bold
Upon a down the ash trees grow
That - lit by starlight - seem to stand
Enchanted by a full moons glow.
There walks a figure, all alone
(Unless they have a camera crew)
They watch the world go by again
The modern world they do eschew.
Who stands here now? Are they some lord,
Astride their lands, all they survey?
Or are they just someone who looks
And strives to learn the natural way?
A shelter built from leaves and moss
A feast of food - all there to find
The shavings on the floor tell of
A sharp knife (with a scandi grind).
But what's important here - the skills?
The fire lit and cordage made?
Or could it be the land itself
The forest, heath and woodland glade?
Or round the fire with friends of old
To tell the tales of day gone by
And laughter fills the firelit glade
As smoke enfolds the starry sky
The call of birds on morning clear
Refreshing rain to feed the soil
The warming sun, the silver moon
The solitude, far from the toil.
To sit beside a rugged oak
Becoming one with what they see
The deer walk by, yet not disturbed
By what stays still beneath the tree.
But now the figure moves away
Through wood, and briar, oak and beech
Their footprints light and movements sure
They go to learn - perhaps to teach.
And as the figure fades from sight
You ask "Did Ray Mears just walk through?"
But pause, and think again, because
Perhaps the figure seen
Was you.