In the Wood

It is of the woods I shall write,
In the newer light of spring,
When blossoms rest upon each bough.
They gather like whispers, the conference wing,
Of earth’s high spirits, deep within each hollow bough.
When shadows glide, we sweep the ground,
The air still holds the seeds lost all around.

Though heavy and bulging leaves bring gloom,
A thicket bristles, brushed by bloom,
I shall take lightly these moments rare,
Fleeting as petals in whispered air.

• Edward Thomas