I’m going to sit here for a while,
take a break and have a hot cup of tea.
I’m going to sit beneath the field maple,
sit on the shawl of ochre leaves it’s laid on the floor.
Silently, reverently, peacefully.
Opposite are lines of skeleton trees sitting calm
before the onset of winter, just taking stock,
having negotiated a pause in time from Nature.
Just a pause, mind you. Just a moment.
Just a prayer carried on Nature’s breath.
The maple and hawthorn hedgerows are winding away.
There’s the rough burp of the crow’s call -
two, now three, no four of them flapping over the valley,
following their ephemeral paths.
Other birds, silhouettes hidden by silhouettes, squeak and chirrup.
Then the slow, meditative, rustle of my clothes.
We’re all navigating the season, navigating the seasons.
We may share our dreams or shed a tear,
sitting beneath the field maple.
