The Beech and the Highcountry Moor     "Will we ever know... .. . . . . the rounded repose of water at rest..."

Constantly running about from high to low and here to there,
this freedom of movement, one of our most precious
of evolutionary gifts, does have its dark side.

Will we ever know...  .  .      .

the rounded repose of water at rest, of
a small pond in a highland moor;

first but a shadow on the winter snows,
the melting then its rising, gladly receiving
each drop of the spring rains,

so freely offering a protected space for the
throaty love songs of creatures of a two-fold
nature.


Or the motionless resilience of ancient trees,
inhabitants of a lowland forest;

Each day, the beech renews its romance
with the space into which it has grown so
slowly and knows so well,

it has long ago made room for the nails of the
farmer's fence, having eased around these
wires with prickly barbs, a skin which grows
smooth with age.