I walk in wonder through a wood
Like some great temple, moist and still,
Bid fair to meet some forest god
Or spirit of the Spring’s new growth,
Maybe just perched upon a bough,
Or peeping round some mossy root.
“Do you, good stranger, come in peace,
Or will you jar our ageless calm?”

In churches bells hang high on towers,
But in this holy, pagan place
Bells upon bells in violet blue
Have carpeted the wildwood floor.
They burst upon the woodscape, fade,
Then, glory done, can rest a year.
No temple architect could match
This bluebell sea in stone or tile.

Beeches, like pillars of a nave,
Graceful, grey-green, smooth and clean
Hold high above a canopy,
A trembling green and yellow shade…..
When suddenly the lingering cloud
Above us parts, the sun breaks through,
Small shaftlets dappling light on bark
And drops of rain on sapling leaves.

The May shower ended, humid air
Hangs languorous in the awakened wood,
Silent I move in sheer delight,
Uttering a pagan prayer.

(Robert Hanrott, May 2004)