Sunday, 28 January 2018

Are you in, Mr Hardy?



Take my hand, 
you say, but walk on ahead,
taking huge strides with your long legs.
Besides, I like to dawdle, to wander away from the path.
Something catches my eye and for just a moment,
am distracted. When I turn back, you are gone. 
So I continue on, alone.

Hat pulled down, 
coat buttoned up, scarf wrapped tightly
around my neck, I trudge onward through damp leaves, 
shades of oranges and browns. The mist is like pea soup. 
I take a deep breath and fill my lungs, the air laced with moss,
and feel the ground underfoot. Mushy and soft, to sink into and
release the heady scent of mushrooms. And rotting earth.

Rain, no more than a gentle mist.
Too cold for flowers, just sneeuwklokjes*, a few ferns. 
And silence. I listen for your footsteps but hear none.
Then, a rustling. Through the leaves a squirrel darts, 
first between trees and then up a moss covered trunk. I watch 
and count, two, three... six, eight... a forest of squirrels.

I round the corner, search through the fog, still nothing... yet, 
the smell? A fire burns. Are you in, Mr Hardy?

© the dishonest woman


*snow drops