The glade

In the sunniest glade
of that quiet corner
where the beech trees
stretch to the sky

I had to say farewell
some years ago
Although but a marker now remains
I will call round

The compass swings round
to point northwest again
in a few days
I'll follow its bearing

But part of me remains
where the trees
meet the sky
at the end of the pathway
to heaven

The belvedere

A grey expanse covers the sky
Light barely gets through
the dark days after Christmas

A mist softly shrouds
the treetops all around
coalescing into a soft soft drizzle

The belvedere stands tall
but offers no views
the valley is shrouded from sight

The trees stand motionless
to attention
as they remember

A dozen young men
picked up, at random?
and executed in these woods

68 years ago last month
we remember their names
their sacrifice

The mist settles
into droplets on branches
in mourning perhaps

The cruelty of occupation
spared to those in the northwest
who nonetheless fought to end it

Their sacrifice too
is not forgotten around these woods
on a dark January day

Memories

The winds sighs in the needled boughs
The heather bends in the breeze
Yellowed grass of winter
on the dry moorland

The similarity is there
But so is the dissimilarity
No bogs or hags
to trap the unwary

Well paved trails
traverse the moors
the traffic roars
on a distant highway

Out on the moors
wherever they be
my mind wanders free
The freedom of the open sky

A dome of blue
clouds scudding along
the solstice sun
setting in a bed of gold

The unminding traffic
continual in its onward journeys
taking the place of the sea
which has not stopped ever

Not all that were here once
are still around now
their memories remain
in the woods and the moors

Much like in the islands where
they remember those gone on ahead
out at sea or through wizened old age
alive in our memories though