Copihue Poetry

It’s April and the woods blather, wild
garlic whispers amongst bluebells
and the audible sighs of fallen trees.
An overgrown pathway sibiliant
beneath the lolling limbs, King
Alfred’s cakes attached grumble
with age. Today’s temptation
is to carry on, break through the under-
growth, emerge into the sunlight
where the secret sea garden
burbles into daily distending days.
Silence fragmented by buds
opening, dreamy breath of the sea
and the lifting of heron wings; field
recordings destined to outlast us all.