No, there are no fairies in this woodland,
I believe, I believe.
But to see an old ash stump, covered in trooping crumble caps
Growing out of the soft green moss,
Like the ones that where there one day
On the great old black poplar tree.
Thoughts of fairy cities are conjured
And I take off in search of stories.
And though no fairies live in this garden
I believe in the majesty of nature.
I believe. I believe
That nature fills us with marvellous visions
And the glory of that is enough.
(But still, the idea of fairies has its own faculty in my imagination.
A search for stories of magical beings
Float around it’s own little mushroom world.)
Now my childlike joy of otherworld beings
Runs alongside my joy of nature.
The fascinating sights and sounds
That would usually pass most by
Have captured mine fully and I can tell you,
(I believe, I believe)
That I heard a hillside of bluebells
Closing up for the night to get some glorious rest.
(And that sound of gentle raindrops pattering on ancient oak leaves was actually bluebells snapping shut).
A rapturous round of applause at the end of a startling day.
And as my imagination is fed more by amazing reality,
My mind has more space.
In my stillness, one moment of clarity,
Sunshine through a green leaf is a pure light.
Amazing reality offers me more and more each day.
The subtle movements of a tree,
I believe, I believe
Like a pair of lungs exhaling
And inhaling.
Grounds impermanent me.
ljmh Nov 2010
