It is Called Forest

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The cloud knows the way
Sweeping clear the sky
Stern prophet of storms.

The delicate green shiver
Of oak fresh growth
Tantalised by wind.

Soft lapis lichen
Steady pathfinder
Of North and Winter.

Nestled deep green
In great trunk’s crook
Moss sprouts fern.

Haze has hidden
Made off at midday
Sun’s serenity.

The moon shows
In long caress
The love of these hills.

It is hard sometimes
Not to admire these trees
Their patience of place.

The wind suddenly dies
Bird song rises
The relief of stillness.

Again the scent of roses
Strong on the warm air
The chthonic power of smell.

All this is forest
The end to another day
How many tomorrows remain?

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About Jamie Nicol

Living in the forested hills of Catalonia, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Zen teacher, recovering philosopher, small-scale natural farmer. Writing just what comes.
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