I went to my secret grove last night
where the trees grow fair
high in the hills,
where the stars are bright
I heard a sound
and turned around
toward the granite chair
You were sitting there
a cup of honey in your hand
and flowers in your hair
Though the grove is secret
it’s a gift that we can share
in the dreaming land
I made you welcome there
a broad green sweep of valley
dark woodlands gathered there
by the rivers curve
nestled far below
above the hills a kestrel calls
sound stretched across still air
the blue grey hills melt away
in a distant milky mist
high above the world i sit
in a place away from care
surrounded by a birch wood
close by a hidden pool
this sun warmed granite ledge
above a grassy stair
lodges like an eagle’s nest
amongst the ancient trees
the oak trees lean together
to form a secret gate
where the hawthorns grow
beside the lofty fir
I lean against the apple tree
and watch the day grow late
no sound but birds and waterfall,
the sighing of the trees
the sun dips down behind the hills
i sit in peace and wait
to see the diamond stars come out
across the web of night
The white gate stands, closed,
at the top of the grey winding road.
The broad green slopes of the pasture
lead down to the shining lake,
a silvered mirror to sunlight.
At first dawn the vale fills with mist.
A line of treetops, drawn on white,
with a tender brush, nothing more.
All is hidden. Nothing exists here now.
It waits to be born with the sun.
An ancient woodland sits in shadow,
deep at the edge of the valley,
where the cry of the circling kestrel
splits the air. He calls to his mate aloft.
The sound defines the distance.
On a hot summer day
the grey road burns and shimmers,
running past old stone walls and banks of wild flowers,
wilting, in afternoon heat.
My feet on the road raise fine dust.
Woven into these hills the grey road runs down
past ruined ivy clothed archways.
They stand alone in a field,
all that remains of a mansion,
a home, and people long gone.
Beyond, is the farmhouse,
built of timber and granite.
It sits as if rooted in earth
nested into a curve,
strong enough to withstand any storm.
In the farmyard the mud is baked hard.
The old sheep dog twitches one ear as I pass.
He knows me too well to rise. He is tired.
His thick coated son wags his tail at me.
He is always on guard.
I walk on past my own cottage door
into a grove of birch saplings,
mingled with older trees, cedar and oak.
In spring this place is flooded with vibrant blue,
the sharp, pungent scent of bluebells fills the air.
In this magical wood, at the far end,
I have often glimpsed the fair folk.
They don’t chase me away. I leave them in peace.
This is a place where two worlds cross.
The door is held open, and welcome.
Now I come to rest in the shade
on this burning bright summer day.
I lean my back against the moss clad old oak
and dream the rest of the day away,
long past this, and every other, evening.
The old standing stone, at the heart of the valley,
remains always cool to the touch.
At night when the stars are out, in moonlight,
the stone is encircled, embraced by a perfect bowl
of such beauty, it takes away my breath.
The Dreaming Path 