Rumination

In the company of birch
I sit, silent, 
listening.

The grey wind softly sighs
through canopies 
of freshly minted leaves. 

Whether its a sigh of wonder, 
pleasure or nostalgic longing 
for the long lost woods of memories,
I cannot say.

But what I say is this.
The bracken, elegant, uncurls;
spreads its fractal fronds towards the sun.

The insects creep, or crawl or run,
or stitch the air with humming wing.

The hidden voices of the forest sing, 
fine treble on the wind's soft bass and
silent counterpoint of Earth.

My soul sings too,
a wordless song I seem to know
from long before my birth. 

     
I have loved this Spring more than any since my youth. Covid19 spurred me to treat this Spring as if it was my last - just in case it was. But adding beauty to pragmatism was the fresh, untrammelled sky free of contrails and the green, jewelled verges uncut, unsprayed and humming with insects.