Here the rivers coil in secret patterns, Mixed with mud, the scrolls of lore, Trace maps to decipher dreams, Winding gently underfoot.

And there, the trees, like fingers, stretch high, Gnarled and wise, in a tangled path, Cloaked in moss, secrets huddling, Providing solace for silent wanderers.

With each rustle, a story is born, In the crickets’ echo, the woods believe: That beneath water and wood, Cycles of life turn, eternal and bright.

• Stephen Spender