In Spearywell wood

Spearywell wood is a piece of ancient woodland, not far from my home. Here is a poem I wrote one hot July day when the wood was full of Silver-washed Fritillary and White Admiral butterflies:-

What mysteries reside within the lives of a million buzzing insects

An orchestra of tiny sounds

The soundtrack to a drama in the deepest quiet woodland glade.

Only when these notes are heard can one begin

To hear the gentle breeze

To feel the silent presence of an ancient oak

Or hear the call of some small bird

And imagine yet another drama played upon this stage

With distant calling pigeon way beyond.

But over all, the stillness and the silence, and the power of peace that soothes the soul,

And corrects the self absorbed preoccupations of a human life so easily ensnared by cares

And then..and only then…the still small voice


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