See a face
Among the leaves,
Green like undergrowth
In spring; his moss-gendered
Brow welcomes you warmly
As you pass beneath the emerald
Arches of his embowered
Behind this face, lies being greater
Than most would surmise, for he is
Keeper and grounds, pastor and flock,
Painter and art, and more, faithful
Witness to your morning
Walk musings, your muttering
And littering. He is the memory
That holds the scattered breath of battles,
Bandits and souls lost to the woodland’s
Taut embrace. He is shepherd to spirits
And tutor to druids, watchful while
They map the arteries of his soil,
Mindful of the meaning they inscribe
Where none will ever
Know to look.
Years and years fall upon him,
Persistent like the downpour
Of dew, patiently peeling his skin,
Bleaching his bloom, encroaching.
He blinks and there’s barrenness
Approaching, devouring, usurping.
Then there’s Man, always
Straightening, always hollowing,
Always abandoning for him to return,
Raise his roots, reclaim the land
He never left.