I
Hidden behind the enclosed donkeys and
beyond the ponies, past a grassy space,
there lies a wooded realm where moss runs free
and in the rocks ‘n trees you’ll see the face
of ancient sprites ‘n spirits – reaching high,
the winding branch becomes a searching trunk;
the craggy rock becomes a visage, sunk
in th’sleep of ages. The dog-violet blends
its colour in amongst the scattered sky,
as light coursecrashes through the canopy
to illumine, ‘tween magic’s shadow cast,
a river running through the Celtic past,
its stepping-stones ‘n timber bridges ask
that you not stray from off the present path…
II
Take a winding path through Puzzlewood
and find yourself now lost
amongst the green grass, mossy trees,
‘n ancient, sleeping rocks
that wait to take you to a sudden
end, where you will turn
and try to go back whence you came
past th’eyes of watching fern…
Image credit – Chandler’s Coach
william altoft 