The Golden Wood

 

Listen to the sounds of the Golden Wood in winter
As the sun is setting beyond the tree line:
The calls & minor key songs of birds,
Small movements of water,
The rush of the breathing, seething roads.
Beyond the ice, dead leaves;
Beneath the leaves, the Bronze Age of your departing year
& all its stories, spoken or unspoken.

Journeys: arrivals & departures
On little wings to & from the continent
Of time, across the sea of sleeping & waking
& this news is not false news
Nor is it irrelevant, for life goes on
Despite the erudite commentary
With which they try to display their knowledge
Of things that are beyond you
& the strange motivations of the others.

If all you hear is sound
You are deaf to the language of birds
If all you see is an oncoming darkness
You are blind to earth-depth
If you look at the sun
& you can’t imagine her smile
Or the moon, & you forget
How ancient his scarred old face really is
Then you are lost in time.
If all you think is in words
Then your heart has been frozen
In the winter night
& you need to sit by someone’s fire for a while.

Listen to the sounds of the Golden Wood in winter
As the sun is setting out beyond the ash trees;
Our breath makes clouds
& the gulls make lines
& the robin shouts
& the river makes a flash of dim light;
Out here among the wind chastened trees
We are singing.