Ancient Hazels so long neglected,
In need of human intervention
To increase their lives.
A wonderful woman studies their movements
Their seasons, their cycles.
Serving one aim in her serenity,
To see which hazel tree to lay
And in which puddle of light
It will love,
Strive and thrive.
She finds the tree and it's whip,
Bends it this way and that.
Its pulsing sap reacts to tell her
And allows her to arch it over.
Its aching bark longs for prolonged life and
Tells her again where to snap and where to stake
The whip is snapped almost in two and pushed down into the welcoming earth;
Pegged down for stability to extend new roots.
One whip she takes, been browsed by a deer,
Feels in her hand dry and hot
She give it to me and says
'Feel that, its dryness and heat'
'Compare it to this' and hands to me
A whip the same size, same tree,
Cool and vibrant to touch
And me an apprentice to coppicing
Absorbs her words and the ways to lay,
And play with the tingling buds
Slowly opening to emerging spring.
The wonderful woman with intuition unparalleled
An elegant, strong beech if she were a tree,
Dancing arms stretch out and up to embrace all and protect all
From the wild elements.
Excited I run to the black poplar tree.
Past a rushing river and proud happy willows
Over fallen ashes still rooted and growing.
Black poplar with wisdom to know and
Presence to feel, I bounce on his roots
Elated to tell him all I've learnt.
Before returning to plant tomatoes
For the wonderful woman who looks after the woods.
