That bright door

through which the deer slips

marks my birth.

My young years

are the shooting green hawthorn,

and the beeches – those steepling beeches

so handsome and tall and sheltering

are my middle and my age.

 

Follow the crooked path

inside and fold me

into its holly heart.

Measure me for bird song,

the craw and water ring

are my joy.

 

Light on the outward faces of the trees,

breezes on the summer leaves

but you will find the centre still

full of content,

a centre deep in family shade.

Remember how happy you have made me

how fitted I am into nature,

how easy this is.

 

When the weather is cold and

you can see the trees grim muscle

hunched against the weight of things

remember how sad I can be

and pause there on the path,

respectfully

because this is where knowledge is.

 

And my end?

There is always an end.

Well it will be

over there,

one day,

where the path fades into gold.