This is a space for poems about Nature and the natural world. The picture shows spring buds on trees at La Ville au Roi. Eleusis is definitely a good place in which to worship nature and feel oneself come alive in communion with the natural world... or relax in the sunshine and write a poem or two.

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  • 9108758055?profile=originalWALNUT TREE

    Our walnut tree has been doing its thing
    for a few centuries now.
    I don’t think it is interested,
    though I could be mistaken,
    whether we notice what it is up to or not, and I doubt that it even cares
    whether the other walnut trees applaud or deride its mighty efforts.
    What sort of life is that? One asks.
    We who always yearn acknowledgement.

    A couple of years ago, I thought it was dying,
    in the slow way of trees,
    but this year, to our amazement,
    it has sent out a multitude of new branches,
    extending its size and making more nuts.
    No doubt the weather helped,
    but one can only wonder at the spark of life
    hidden inside all that bark and dead wood.

    Some visitors even remarked that the tree
    now needs a prop
    if its northward bough is not to be in danger of breaking off
    so great is the foliage it now supports.
    Again one wonders at Nature’s design faults:
    could She not have designed walnut tree props Herself?
    Or did She mean them to break?
    are we just interfering, busybodies,
    or do we have a part to play in the scheme of things?

    In any case,
    with or without its bough
    I reckon that Old Walnut
    is still going to be going strong
    when my boughs have been
    thoroughly recycled.

  • 9108758080?profile=originalCLEARING IN THE WOODS

    Startled I saw the clearing in the wood,
    here where once a great tree stood
    and in its stead, now sheer delight
    on a fine spring day, all filled with light,
    a chasm opens midst the trees
    decked out with butterflies and bees,
    where orchids grow and, as there's room,
    a hundred colours are in bloom,
    all artistry devoid of toil,
    there is no gardener of this soil,
    it is a grace of the dark deep wood,
    a magic rarely understood,
    not to be known by the thinking mind,
    but touching the heart makes it kind.

    An endless way extends the wood,
    a forested land where the soil is good
    from a trillion leafs, no, many more,
    that carpet this long untrodden floor;
    full of mystery we do not know,
    creatures that sleep then rise and go
    about a business all their own:
    that is how the wood has grown.
    We can give thanks and we can pray,
    enjoy the fruit in the fullness of day,
    but the wisdom of the dark dark green
    is ever hidden behind its screen
    until once in a while, in a sudden flush
    the sun breaks in and bids one, hush!

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