In The Forest

Authors note: In the main I am housebound and have been now for two years. My Occupational therapist organise a weekly trip to a local forest. The feeling of euphoria and the degree of de-stressing were wonderful. So Much so it inspired me to write some poetry. I very rarely write this genre of poetry so I hope it works :-) David
 
In The Forest

A ring of marbled beach stones
Sit uneasily on bark and moss
Homesick for the beach and tide
But there they sit ready for their task
 
A smaller inner circle forming a doughnut hole
Much bigger stones, grey like a business suit
Flecks of charcoal create a join-the-dots
Some of the stones blackened like toast
 
At first glance it looks like maybe witchery is afoot
A black magic sacrificial stone circle, possibly
A man in a white beard brings paper and kindling
A bunch of sticks not made for walking
Half a dozen logs but no captains log
Sparking rod sparks, man creates fire
 
A fire stick blown into the heart of this new burning
The flames now taking hold, dancing like ballerinas
The tangerine flames lick round the logs
Like a ginger tom cat cleaning himself
Or like a thirsty dog lapping at the well
 
The wood snaps and crackles but doesn’t pop
Small embers like fireflies blown on the breeze
Dancing like fairies until their light goes out
The smell of smoke reminds me of a bad habit
 
I warm myself with the fire’s gentle snuggling hug
Then a pot is put on the fire, something’s cooking
The steaming pot calls the kettle black
The kettle accuses the pot of being racist
 
The thought of witchery grabs my mind once more
Is this a witches brew, some magic potion or lotion
Turns out to be courgette soup with garlic and pepper
Potatoes in tin foil blazers bake at the base of the fire
 
The gang have soup and bread rolls, tea and coffee
We sup in the forest greenery like ancient Celtic folk
There’s talk of wood carving and making charcoal
And weaving form wool straight from an obliging sheep
 
I am off-road in my electric chair, not a death sentence
Skidding and getting stuck adds to the flavour of the day
We use planks of wood like Egyptians dragging pyramid rocks
Occasionally I need a push, almost like being in a pram
 
A pleasantly strange kind of day, but strange in a good way
A choice of the forest or the dreary concrete town centre
Not difficult to ponder, I’d chose the forest every time
It’s back to reality, back on the bus, then homeward
I am missing the forest already