His Story. National Poetry Writing Month Day 3.

In the woods
In the woods

Every generation will tell you how much has changed, how good, bad, easy or hard it is or was or never will be again. We now are no different, why would we be. Enjoy the changing landscape, embrace change as a friend, smile a lot despite the confusion.


His Story.

Remember the woods?
Or the back alleys and jitties,
all the cut-throughs and overgrown tracks.

The shading of the light, green in the trees,
and wild stories told on the run,
orange street lights in a line,
early evening colour.

The sounds of the wind across the fields,
cars on the road, the sea from the beach
with the caravan window open at night.

The smell of school, rough; and mud
of the field out back where everyone went,
running about with wild intermingled games.
Home or grandmas house, always that clean
fresh idea that brings it rushing back.

Remember holding a hand so large and looking up to see,
or being swung up and away from a step or a puddle
to be held under an arm or across a shoulder above the crowd.

And now? What works? Knowing it was there, or wanting what it meant,
making it mean something in the speed of a year you might miss
in the blink of the cursor or the ringing telephone in the woods
where quiet wanders looking for space. Where gravelled paths
cross contours in straight lines through adventure and the roots
of the trees are not for hiding in anymore.

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