The old forest stirs

As night is woken
by the cawing of the crows
casting spells of space
around their nests,

we walk up to the edge
of the pond in our parkland
copse, free of stone,
land of quiet separating
the two parts of our village.

Silently we stand and feel
the air fill itself with a sense
of a summer’s nightly otherworld –

ancestral memories of
the old forest –

its peace be on the brook,
be on the whispering leaves
and the wild honeycomb,

its peace be on the bees
of the hermit’s hive,
celebrating holy life

and yes, we will be warden…

Moon wakes us
to its bright smile.

The walk home takes
only a short while.