Walking In Wildwoods.

Silence leans, heavy and low in these woods. Assailing ears filled with previous sounds It drowns them in quiet. I sense I could Smell the ancient, mishapen trees around As they lie fallen in streams, which willfully Wetting and liquidly glassing them, burst Before bubbling away. Pregnant air, still And languid, careless feet tread unrest, first Bird then butterfly, but calm descends again, Throws soft muffles of magical peace over The atmosphere, and silhouettes the same Age-old green things found here. Uncovering The draw of this spell-binding place, I may Then, today in wildwood haze, find a fey!