In Dalbeattie Forest

forest

The forest, where each sound falls dead and pine trees touch the clouds,
And needles cloak the yielding floor in golden, padded shrouds,
Where foliage on stilts frowns down from arches in the heights,
As, wrapped in conversation, we pass through the dim spotlights
That slant diffusely through the gaps, and slice the narrow track
In punctuated staves of silent music. Looking back,
We check our watches – only time and never distance can be measured here.
The sound of chainsaws faded long ago. It’s later than we feared.
Soon dark will fall and drown these woods in black ink, so we’d best decide
Which way to turn. The winding paths stretch out for miles on either side
And look the same whichever way we choose, but one leads back to light.
The other, far more promising, snakes down into the sacred night.

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