Life Beneath Trees

The sublime and gentle ritual of
This sensate place,
With slow steps into forest oblivion.
Mud between toes.
Heaven and haven, grisaille and green,
Your hand in mine,
Skin that shines in shadows of leaves.
I met gods there,
I walked with my goddess there,
In the ice wind.

Solemn and glorious mountains,
Enveloped vale,
Snow shines as this season turns,
I feel boundless.
Wandering to this fargone place,
Wondering sight:
Black mold on broken boughs.
We stood beneath
A great gnarled tree, held another’s fall;
There was silence.

Moss, lichen, stone, branch,
Unspoken, hush.
We walked without words.
Our limb, tree limb;
Boundaries lose meaning.
Are we the land?
Envelop in the rabbit warren.
Speak to horses.
A cat crossed our path, a friend
In the pine wood.

Maybe he drew her chariot,
When she wept gold.
Maybe she and I loved before,
Lifetimes ago.
Her eyes are so very bright,
She cares so much.
I will kill to keep her free;
War on the world.
Fight forever for her and ours,
Life beneath trees.

Twm Gwynne

Twm Gwynne is an illegalist anarchist, amateur gardener, and aspiring skald, making his home among the mist-bound mountains and lakes of New Zealand’s South Island.

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