A Walk in the Woods

The leaves move in the wind - or moving leaves create the wind. Mysterious, the wood through which I walk, and hung with possibilities I thought we had resolved in childhood. A greenness, as of ocean, overwhelms; its weight makes dizzy, twangs the brambles round the feet, entwined like broken cello strings. If trees were people we would call them bullies, yet they wait, patient as the mist above the pond and like a million fibres hung with stars, as though a million spiders had a million thoughts and could not stay with one. We look for stasis, but the spiders know the world is built on motion, they are one with it, their webs are sexual, are moments of completion, their only absolutes - in moments torn to pieces. Each ecstasy brings forth another like itself. Beyond life hangs life's image in another web. Between the roots and canopy the trunks impose their discipline, a regularity of space and form. Things follow things, there are no final moments, final states. Mysterious the wood, and hung with possibilities. And yet, and yet we cannot move without the web is torn. D. King
Last updated 18.5.2007