Nature
In this light the world
Is a painted picture,
The tree trunks swift
As an actor’s dark
Paint strokes,
Lines of hill and vale
Etched in a great feel,
And that wind –
The whisper, the finch,
And the flutter of the crows
Above.

But still the grey-blue clouds
Draw over, and a dim day,
As we step quietly
Into stillness,
In touch with
The ancient laurel of
Life, of root, of flower.
Our thoughts catch
Like leaves trapped in
The underbrush.
We learn a language
Of rhythm, a sense of
Time stretched among
The shadows of life,
The silences of existence.
We dance through the brush,
We pierce the coolness
With laughter,
We turn to the sun
As longed for,
And know.

• Christopher Isherwood