One A Day: As Adults
This poem is about a wood that was behind our old house, near the North Yorkshire moors. It was our favourite place to go as kids, and today, as grown up’s, my sister and I went back for a wander. It was a wonderful day, as we walked through the sunny spots, jumped over bogs and carefully stepped over streams and talked about our woodland playground. Back in the day, I would experience a strange something…sort of like a presence or…well, it’s hard to explain but I think you’ll know what I mean. Well, today before I wrote the poem, I read that there used to be a deer park in the area, which conjured up all sorts of ideas.
We walk to the woods
we played in as children,
when we would pack little rucksacks
with bait boxes, filled with cheese sandwiches,
crab apples and Quality Streets left over from Christmas,
to last a day in the woody patch between the moor and the village.
The big wood isn’t as big as it used to be,
but still, we have to look upwards to see the tops of the trees.
Sun bounces off the leaves, making small pools on the rusty earth
Important things have happened here,
our memories hang inside our hearts and heads
like old, comfy coats.
But someone else has tried to make a den,
a rope swing and camp fire,
and I am jealous, then remember
this earth is at peace, it is we that are not.
We sense a presence and stand as still as we can.
It is as though deer are passing close,
but we are invisible to them.