Poetry

We are walking between bowers of birch, A breath of air gently moves the branches As it begins to rain, the trees release an organic perfume And we listen to the patter of droplets falling onto leaves We are walking among the granny pine and hazel As the trees becomes sodden, their leaves channel heavier drops into moss that has grown as deep as our ankles We step over tree trunks, we hear the soft crumpling of rotten wood under our feet ...