Harebushes Wood by Clare Finnimore
‘Too humid on our coast.
Due to leave in April,
but no flights to Madras’
he says
Dark skin
disappearing into green.
Oak, beech, hornbeam, lime
ash, alder, quickthorn, pine
emerald, khaki, olive, jade
roots, branches, nettles, ferns
Scents of wild garlic draw me on.
‘You can follow me’
His voice on rustling leaves
interrupting Celtic spirits
hiding in the wood
too ancient to name.
Woodwhoses, cool verdigris, toadstool and moss
casting the spell.
‘Swop me your dream’
he says.
The sycamore beckons
with Sisters Wood and Ragged Hedge,
May’s stage is set.
Then on a sudden, light and space
sheep mown grass
the wider path.
Tarbarrow cricket pitch
and neat pavilion.
Its own amphitheatre
with no crowd.
He talks Tamil names and horses
his mare and geldings
having no exercise.
Then descending further down again
the two paths cross.
‘Safer’ he says
‘Safer this way’
and ‘Here.’
Children’s voices breaking in
I hear cycles in the wood
singing, laughter and the sound of cars.
Through the needle barrier my dog and I,
Stumbling almost onto road
the quiet lane now a dual carriageway
I look around, but he is gone.
Somewhere Else Writers Group 