Sights, scents and sounds and even soundlessness,
That brings to us something of natures essences.
We are told to experience the gift of the closeness,
The energy of the trees the streams and even grasses.
But what is it?
In youthful days when we were fighting Argentina
We would not care about the pattern of natures patina.
We ‘yomped’ around the lakes as fast as a Ford Cortina,
Fast for physical, missing the point of the spiritual arena.
What was it?
The stillness of a close after dawn or twilight walk
No sound to break the silence of the hovering hawk
The slow and deliberate step that precludes all talk
The feeling that something speaks. We hit the fork.
Like a feather brushing the face, eyelids flutter
Breath gasps for air as if an important matter
Hit the conscious mind. No words, no sound, no patter.
What it was and is and will be filters through the chatter.