THE PATH
The shimmering leaves of darkest green,
amassed against the moonlit sky.
A thousand silhouettes look down
before the moon departs the scene.
The grove of beech, arms proudly borne,
in all their decorous majesty
above the path which winds below
as breaking light announces morn.
Puncturing through a beech trees spread
a lonely shaft of early sunlight
falls on twigs which lie in wait
to snap beneath the falling tread.
And passing on where where trees are shun
and bracken makes its marshy bed
the fading dyes of early growth
laid siege by glare of summer sun.
Downward past the hedging frieze
in furrowed fields, the golden heads
bow and curtsy, bend and sway
in deference to the summer breeze.
The nettle-funnelled winding pass,
twisting, snaking to the sea
disappears among the dunes
and stabilising maram grass.
Emerging where the beach line lies
with rocks and stones and turning tides
where shells and driftwood and detritus
mark the lonely path’s demise.