Softly she falls, a girl, tumbling, slow.
Kissed by each glistening web as she goes.
Paper her wings, diamonds her eyes,
Gazing through leafy, blue glimpses of sky.
Snatches of songs sound,
time softly fades.
Windows flung open as years are replayed.
Sharper and brighter than ever they were,
She is the mirror reflected in her.
Clearer her senses, kinder her eyes:
Shaking off each heavy, dusty disguise.
Knowing herself as she knew all along,
Venturing forward, with courage so strong.
All that she searched such an age to unearth,
She’s finding in places, not tied to her birth.
Little by little each piece is restitched,
A tapestry woven from every last wish.
Skin may be loose now,
hair not so bright;
But here still,
the child;
trading dreams in the night.
Little by little, she paints every stroke.
Watching her fears, softly vanish, like smoke.
Every sense woken, she’s watching her hands.
Sculpting her future on firm golden sand.
No longer falling but flying through space.
Walking each step with her back to the race .
LW
The blue gate was broken and gnarly,
Its ivy clad paint chipped and torn.
A keeper of secrets behind there,
Forbidden since first she was born.
She tried to avoid this direction
For fear of what might her, befall.
Inevitably, one rainy morning,
A dog she was with, lost his ball.
Now, if this were a regular story,
A rainbow or two would appear.
But this was a dreich Scottish Friday,
And no meddling unicorns near.
The hall, it had flown quite a distance.
There was nothing else she could do.
So yanking the rusty gate open,
She broke all the rules and curfew.
A path lay within what can only,
Be named as a forest of roots.
A tangle of overgrown bushes,
And mud which leaked into her boots.
So typical, and so annoying,
The dog disappeared out of view.
To grab hold of those thorny bushes,
Was probably all she could do.
A pair of embroidery scissors,
Remained from a felt-making class.
To have such abundant filled pockets.
Was suddenly, useful at last.
She snipped, and gave whack to the branches.
Her boots kicking tangles away.
Her progress, though slow, was unveiling.
A twist, to this strange kind of day.
Old legends of haunted, bad forests,
Had kept many feet from this path.
And parents forbidding their children,
From straying too close after dark.
She noticed a snippit of colour,
A mosaic of bluebells and ferns.
The path began opening wider,
Revealing a copse and a burn.
Now, hidden from all the familiar,
She stood in a moss covered dell.
A circle of ruby red toad stalls,
Inhaling this rich woodland smell.
The path forked in several directions,
Green light from its canopy sparked
And it wasn’t scary or haunted
And it wasn’t lonely or dark
Instead there was no worry lingers,
Instead there was breathing slowed down.
Instead there was crisp air contentment,
A velvet room; green, blue and brown.
A hoot from an owl in the distance,
A rustle as fox sniffs new prey.
A dormouse who scuttles so swiftly,
Chased moths and his brothers away.
As forest sounds turned up their volume,
She noticed how each living thing.
Was moving and breathing together,
How whispering woods really sing.
A bat with long ears swooped beside her
No trace of a vampirish grin.
This soft silky creature emboldened,
By autumn light falling on him.
Her hand brushed the bark of an oak tree
its acorn like cups at her feet,
She lay on the soft green moss carpet,
Sleepily soothed by its heat.
A shriek from away in the distance,
Where are you ? The dinner is cold.
You better not be in the brambles,
You better have done as you’re told !
Turning to step on the pathway,
She noticed familiar sounds.
A curl of smoke rose from the tree tops,
Too close to the secret she’d found.
And suddenly there was her mother,
Wide eyed and in puzzlement stared.
A tear in her eye she remembered,
How as a young girl she’s been there.
She sat down beside her and listened,
To all of the silence and noise.
To all of the melodies playing,
To feeling her fears be destroyed.
The years fell away in an instant,
She let them be gone and be still.
Her daughter re-finding her pathway,
Much further than just down the hill .
A path feared to tread by a mother,
Will feel to the young heavenly.
For when we are caged by another,
Our journey can never be free.
Inside every dark, gloomy forest,
Lies layers of stories and charm.
Each tiny new magical detail,
Will find you the journey to calm.
Together they stepped on the pathway,
A little less sad and alone.
As time bent like rowan around them,
They followed their lost dog back home.
Liz
