In Whose Shade They Shall Never Sit.

Before the trail sees morning traffic amble through,

I come to sit.

I take my tripod stool 

and straddle popped vein roots; darting off

like finger-tensed forearms 

mimicking the spanned shadow extents of beech bough and branch.

Nothing grows in your shade

but the poet’s imagination and a reverent silence.

Only the horse chestnut’s conquering technique

of sidling up and stretching northwards competes,

encroachment forgiven to share footprint,

while wood fern and holly skirt

a protected perimeter, 

kettling canary grass and creeping buttercup

from the barren sweetbed of shed leaves.

And between 

unseen showers, 

globules slap 

the outstretched chestnut palm, 

and strained light shards 

spiral through the vast green canopy

in shades of opal and lime.

And your silent society 

secretly grows as 

an old man shelters

in wonder 

at the providential 

sower of shade.