Hawthorn's Wood

'Tis dawn

and here I stand on this hill,
the world stretched out below me.
I hear its wakenings still
but those dull murmurings
hold naught for me, rather
intrude upon quiet musings.

Much more do I prefer
the sweet singing of birds in the woods
and quaint bluebells in their hoods
lingering in hollows
where lonely sentinels stood
centuries ago.

In Hawthorn’s Wood
the ferns whisper greenly
against boulders grainy
along ancient cedar paths;
and butterflies dance on the wing
while unfettered things
frolic midst fairy rings.

So, now, tarry awhile
I will
on this hill
in concert with all my heart doth know;
though betimes
I must return
to the cut and thrust below.

© Melody Rhodes

Notes

This poem appears at Author's Den and HubPages. No part may be used without author permission.
 
This piece was inspired by an early morning ramble through the woods above Nelson, B.C. Years later, the scenes, thus impressed on that inward eye, found their way onto the printed page. 

My great uncle's family surname was Hawthorn.