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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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.
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!