A piece of fenced, green wilderness lies beside my house. A path of stones has been laid  for those who wish to walk. It goes up and down and around the trees that must be hundred years’ old. You know looking at the barks and the roots. A playground has been made for the kids in a clearing in the trees. It has swings, slides and a jungle gym.  On a blue, rusted board it says, ‘Welcome to the garden.’ Whatever it says, to me, this piece of green is ‘ The Woods.’ This poem got published in the  Indian Periodical  

 

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The Woods

It’s where the trees grow

their boughs entangled

With roots – long and mangled

Gnarled fingers, knuckles bent

Varicose veins gripping the earth

Holding it tightly like a woman’s girth

And others hanging loosely from the top

over-used strings on a house-hold mop

A witch’s hair knotted; unkempt

 

 

Its where the leaves lay scattered

Unswept; on the  soft, wet mud

And wild red berries fall with a thud

A brown canvas with purple, pinks and white

Colors splattered; vibrant and bright

An organic platter for those with wings

And scurrying feet in search of nibbling things

Bricks and mortar for their homes

Twigs and leaves, sand and stones

 

It’s where I gently tread

And take care not to skip

a step, lest I slip

on the path laid out, up and down

made of stones, winding around

Strewn with leaves and wet with dew

Visited by the romantic few

Its’  ‘The Woods’ alright

No matter what the board says- the one that’s on site!

 

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