The Moon
In your full regalia
Shining oh so bright,
Peering through the shimmering clouds
Reflecting off the calm smooth waters
With hopes, possibilities and dreams
For all those who dare
For all those who care

The woods are calling
Calling my name
Come to us
Be with us
Be one with us

So I packed up my tent and my Ghillie Stove
Put my hiking boots on
And made my way
Into the deep dark woods
The magnificent majestic ancient woods
Full of beech, oak and hornbeam

I felt at peace once again
Amongst my friends
The tree spirits
And wood nymphs.

Write a poem, he said,
It will do you good, he said.
I know not how, said I,
Where to start, what to say, what about, said I.

Think of something, someone, somewhen, he said,
Sit with pen and expectant paper,
Allow words to unveil themselves
From deep inside you.
So that I did, did I.

My first night
Experienced a storm in the woods, did I,
All magical and mystical.
Standing in the rain,
With a flash of lightening,
a crash high above.
Sensing tension in the air,
Feeling murmur in the earth,
Caught in the moment
Not scared was I.

Moved to tears of joy,
I was entranced,
enthralled.
enrapt’d.

I grabbed my expectant pen and paper
To capture the moment.
Words flowed from nowhere
Summing up
What I saw,
What I heard,
How I felt.
Something wondrous,
Something incredulous.
Something extraordinary.

I was finding my voice,
was I.

Where have I come from?
Where am I headed?
What am I doing here?
Does it feed my soul’s desire?
Who am I?
Am I who I want to be?
Am I who I’m destined to be?

Into the woods
Seeking solace and R&R,
Away from civilisation,
And the dreaded mobile phone.
Off grid, switched off and outnumbered by trees,
Explore who I am, what I’m doing, where I’m heading.
At 50
Time to take stock,
Reappraise and reapply,
And fulfil my soul’s path.

How do you do that?
When you don’t know what it is
When you don’t know who you are
When you’ve never truly been you.
Always wanting desperately to fit in,
but never seeming able.
Afraid of being judged,
yet judging too.
Never taking action
for consequential fear.
Drifting through life,
Disassociated,
Disconnected,
Discombobulated,
No surprise.
Disengaged,
Discontented,
Disenchanted.

5 nights in the woods
Just me and my tent.
Walking all day,
Staring in the fire all night.
Sitting in peace and quiet amongst coppice, hornbeam and oak
Seeking answers
With none forthcoming.
Other than taking time out.
And dreaming of
Living the #vanlife
Going where the mood takes me.
No rush, no worries, no cares,
Just me and my camper van
Freedom and
Flexibility.

Travelling on the road,
Meeting kindness of strangers,
Comfy dress down
No airs and graces,
Deep conversations,
Connection,
Move on.
Being the nomadic free spirit,
that’s me.

But is it an escape?
A way to stay disconnected?
A way to not face up to feelings
Of anger and shame?
Or will it be the making of me?
The discovery of me?
The adventurer in me?

I walked into the house,
A timid mouse scurried away,
I heard the ticking of a clock,
The door slammed shut behind me,
All was quiet.
I stepped into the darkened room,
Eerie, dismal, frightening.
The patter of footsteps,
The blood-curdling scream,
My blood turned cold.
The thumping in my heart,
A thing creeping up closer behind me,
His bones rattling,
The push and stumble,
Nearer and nearer,
Bigger and bigger

Then the morning,
And waking up.

Long since hence these stones be here,
We know not who, what, when or why,
But ancient they sure be,
with their
Power, symbolism and magic
For offer
to all those
with gift to see.

Ignore the disrespect
from the treasure seekers and tourists,
Instead sit,
And stare,
And soak up the
ancient magic and wisdom
From this mystical place.
Rising up from the ground  
Wrapping you lovingly in its sweet embrace.

Note the brightly coloured tree in pride of place.
Tie a coloured ribbon round your body ill,
Then round the branch of the hornbeam tree,
For it will disappear before the next full moon,
Many a truth be told.

Gaze out at North Downs view,
Reminiscent of pilgrims past,
For many a footprint upon footprint lay there,
With many a tale told,
And yet to be told.

I wonder where,
Where I call home.
I’m uncomfortable with others,
With their ersatz shallow ways,
Except those few sweet few.
I prefer most my own company
Away from the many,
The contradictions, the confusion, the overload of senses.
Its so much easier that way.
No worry.  
Be myself,
Without fear
Of treading on eggshells
Lest I put my foot in it,
once again,
Saying wrong things,
Being judged,
Being criticised.
Just for being.

But I’m lonely too,
That lack of connection,
To others
and myself.
I pretend.
I keep busy.
I have no time to feel.
I pass absently
And joylessly
through a life
Of empty
Disconnection,
Discombobulation,
With a heavy weight upon my back.
Tis sad.
Tis a waste.
Till a fall from sweet grace.
From what we are sent here to do.
Spread love.
Be love.
Love all.
Love you.
Love me.

Oh to rest my weary head,
in my freshly laundered bed,
Haste to the land of dreams I mourn,
And pray for sweetness in the dawn.

Swaying in the soft gentle breeze,
succulent green leaves glisten and glow,
catching the sun's golden rays, filtering
through the coppiced canopy above,
reflecting off droplets from heaven;
Bringing the verdant vibrant woods to life.

There's many a story these woods could tell,
If only trees could talk;
Long in the night they'd stand and share,
of the songbird’s sweet call for loves lost,
the snowy owl's nocturnal adventures,
the *****’s screams of ecstasy, or pain.

And let us not forget, the forest fairies fair,
coming out to play on such a glorious morn.
Sunbathing atop a toadstool fly agaric,
Admiring the glistening golden spider's web,
Downing the nectar from a rain soaked leaf.
Washing dainty toes in the morning dew.

But don’t expect to see one.
For they are as timid as the fawn,
yet as brave as the lion.
As delicate as lace,
yet as strong as silk.
But they are there, rest assured.
Keeping the magic of the woods alive,  
protecting the spirits of the trees,
and allowing the secrets of the woods to live on,
For evermore

Pitch black.
Black as night.
Blacker than black.
All is silent.
Eerily
silent.
Deathly
silent.
Waiting.
Fearing.
Expecting...
the worse.

The wind whistling,
winding itself
through
the trees,
seductively,
assertively,
aggressively.
Tension
building.
Coming
closer.
Gathering
pace.
Leaves
quiver.
Trees
shake.
A flash
of lightening.
A piercing
crack.
Dead above.
Eyes
wide.
Heart
stopped.
Frozen.

Then just as abruptly as it arrived, its gone.
Leaving the rain behind.
Pitter,
patter,
plop
on the tent canvas.
Soothing.
Calming.
Zzzzzz.

Dawn comes.
Birds sing.
Fresh morning dew.
All's well in the world once more.

Til the next time....