Beards of root and moss
and stone cored by water
hosing through histories of rock,
tan, black, aquamarine,
in a blaze of light
punctured by pine.
It is an eerie, secret place.
Little birds chant
and there are faces in deep pools,
footprints on the grass
and the low sound behind it all
is the wake of the past.
There's a table where the path melts away,
covered in seed and blossom,
set for fairies anyone can see.
I will sweep it clear and write:
the risk seems fit-
writing is like fading bit by bit.