MOSS-GATHERING

 

VI. MOSS-GATHERING

(a) To loosen with bare hands the patches of soft green, To lift the heavy swathes of the root-fretted moss, Is a thing to be done with care, without much noise, Or the disturbance of those small creatures who live In the damp, dark world of the forest floor.

(b) But it was more than that: it was a kind of digging In the deep, cool earth of the past, A way of reaching back to a time When the world was fresh and new, And the air was filled with the scent of pine.

(c) And as I worked, I felt a sense of peace, A feeling of being at one with the earth, As if the moss itself were a part of me, And I a part of it.

VII. ORCHIDS

(a) They lean over the path, Adder-tongued, low-voiced, Swaying their lean stems, Soft as a fanned out flame.

(b) They have no roots in the earth, But live on the air and the dew, Drawing their life from the sun And the secret depths of the wood.

(c) Their colors are strange and bright, Like the wings of a butterfly, And their scent is a heavy musk That fills the air with a dream.

(d) They are the ghosts of the forest, The spirits of the trees, Watching and waiting in silence For the world to pass them by.

VIII. CHILD ON TOP OF A GREENHOUSE

(a) The wind billowing out the seat of my pair of breeches, My feet crackling splinters of glass and dried putty, The half-grown chrysanthemums staring up like accusers, Up through the streaked glass, flashier than glass-snakes.

(b) And the sun coming down with a slant light, Over the rooftops and the tall elms, And the world far below me, A tiny, toy-like thing.

(c) I was king of the mountain, The lord of all I surveyed, Until the gardener’s shout Brought me back to the earth.

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