Ancient Woods (Poetry)

Here the old enchantments sigh, sing on the wind
and twist thin shadows through the sleeping wood,
trees assume strange forms,
unnatural shapes that seem to move —
gesture, tease and threaten imperceptibly,
while dappled green-gold light spins webs
high up between the leaves
and stunted bushes craft their darkest caves,
locking thorn and twig
to capture silence.

Underfoot, the leaves lie soft with mould,
their musky scent disturbed with every scuff
of boot and shoe that treads the dwindling path,
and either side the tattered strings of moss loop down
like shredded banners from a battle lost.

Death Caps ring a fallen log,
a beetle scurries in a cleft of bark
and somewhere close the stream’s ice water lisps
an ancient language garbled over stones.

The birds are quiet, lulled by mystery,
magic broods in circles, grasses twitch
and shiver, part long silver stems
for something made of air to pass, unseen.