By Rohan Scott
More gift of the watery sky, no Indian summer in sight
Rain and fog, grain sodden to bog.
I tread the mudded trail cutting the planted rows.
Rhododendron, Hydrangea, purple Verbena
Nomenclature serves no barrier in the floral wonder
Hues of periwinkle and mauve dusted with water drop
A clearing announces my arrival at the steps of the wood
I am greeted by a solitary maple
Who directs me to seek shelter under the arboreal cluster
Thank you and farewell, leaving it alone, again.
The beechen canopy wipes the rain off my shoulders
As I wander into the dark and dank
Interspersed are fir and pine following no forested rank
The needle littered floor presses a waft of wet loam
My eyes spin above my person
Enamoured by these silent sentinels
My feet wander through this towering grove
I am drawn along the trail to the feet of a champion
The great Wellingtonia peers down at me
Standing over a hundred feet
To ease the crane and strain, its lowest limb gestures a seat
I scan its blood shale bark, its samphire leaves
I’m speechless.
No, I have so much to say – but you can’t hear me?
A wind carried whisper corrects me,
It listens closely to my thoughts,
Bestowing momentary solace –
To be alone, In company,
With a newfound friend.