we are such forest-trees, and our fair boughs
have bred forth, not pale solitary doves
but eagles golden-feathered, who do tower
above us in their beauty, and must reign
in right thereof; for ’tis the eternal law
that first in beauty should be first in might
somewhere between the gods and the grasses, the horse-chestnuts are flowering. the trees are all in candle, lemon curd and blush, and each inflorescence illuminates in the storm scattered light that rushes above us. brilliance brushes branches. eventually, each bloom will transform into their own conker, in the autumn, when the countryside once again grows cold, mist-covered. but, for now, it is May! and a showy clematis is climbing up the trellises of the thatched roof cottage, with the stained glass roses, to whom this garden belongs. and, at the bottom of the hill, if you will, you can scramble over a fence, hop over a stream, and then, you’ve found your way to the edge of the woods.
dandelion wishes, ginger beer in glass bottles, i’ve a picnic, and a patchwork blanket, which in truth, is looking a little worse for wear, in need of some repair. the sky’s vermeil and vapour, shadow and shapes of a spectacular scale, and so this canopy of leaves become shelter. i lie down, and lose hours. the bluebells have all gone to seed, but all around me even the grasses, if you look closely enough you’ll see, have blossomed silver and wispy minute feathery petals. it’s almost as if they’ve each captured a piece, or a sliver, of moonlight, fallen to the forest floor last night. silver, viridian, unfurling ferns and moss. there’s a gentle, but not imperceptible, strength, to all of this, the delicate wild strawberries and the forget-me-nots too. the sounds of a springtime shower gifting life and hope anew.