Along the beech wood paths;
besides the young and middle agedand ancient beeches;
graceful, flat, slanting branches, ~ dark coins of leaves
on sunlit, illuminated leaf coins.
Besides the gnarled and age old oaks
and the great, tall, sun burnt boles of Douglas firs;
and here and there what a 17th century writer described as
‘these, ancient, venerable vegetables.’
Pollarded, protected, hollowed, hallowed and ravaged old men beeches.
And here; we wander through the myre,
where dragonflies dart and butterflies flutter and dance
above the seeding grasses.
Within this dipping field of beeches;the ground is thick and soft and bright with the years layers of decaying leaves.
And here is a monumental, ancient tree, the ground around it’s hollowed trunk; heaving with ants.
Absorbed in their own business, carrying bright bits of leaf and stem.
Yesterday, in Victorian catacombs, we gazed at the decaying remains of coffins;the painted, decorated wood and velvet embroidery crumbling and grey, revealing the lead casingthat holds the last remains of the long gone.
I would ask not to be encased; or burnt, when the time comes ~
let me be buried beneath a tree, let insects and worms make feast of me; until I am become a tree,
my eye an illuminated leaf.
Ingrid Andrew<> HeartsSong