I go over the hill where the badger sets

indent the brackeny descent

where the early mist still floats in the valley

drifting in streamers among the Ash and Willow

alongside the chanting stream.

 

There is an ancient Oak

at the edge of the grove

18 paces it’s girth, I measure

and among the curling roots there is a ledge

where I can sit against the trunk and ponder.

 

I am wondering:

What are you called?

How do you call yourself, great tree being?

and crystal clear, comes the answer:

Ah, and where does that leave us!

Our names are but labels, skin-deep at best.

Whereas the tree’s identity is homogenous

rooted deep, deep in it’s heart

all the way through.

And I see the rivers and streams of its life-force

networking, mercurial

imprinting like a myriad snail tracks

 on the ebb tide in the sand:

like an intricate lace halo

impregnating its whole space

it’s great stillness

seething, breathing

- Being it’s name.

 

 

2003