Hartburn

Filaments of spider webs, damp and delicate, grace my face,

First to tread this path between ancient trees at dawn's embrace.

Breathing in the peaty musk, memories of last night's rain,

I savour the wood's essence, the verdant pulse of every vein.

Mud, wet and yielding between each toe,

While twigs snap beneath my steps the forests song glows and grows.

Branches sway and dance above, silhouettes in morning light,

Forms morph and merge, just out of sight.

By the water's edge I stand, silently reading her lore,

Her strength evident this morn, bolstered by the rains of yore.

I perch, sitting on the stones, letting her rhythm guide my thought,

My entry into her depths, a respectful onslaught.

Against her flow, I strive, she molds me, a woodland treadmill's pace,

Once deemed worthy by her, I drift in her embrace.

A black wolf, dark as night, keeps watch downstream, ever near,

He rests, yet his presence is precious and dear.

Autumn whispers its approach, the waterfall's young song so true,

Its waters pristine, fresh, crystal and new.

Lyndsay Robinson