Opening the Iron Gate my feet trace
a path round silent ponds,
through black stands of blasted trees
rumbling from the smoke of winter’s war
flinging out naked branches
tipped by the solstice sun.
All is silence! No rustle of leaf, wing or
clink of feet scatters stray stones,
stirs this moment of equality –
I walk on almost fearing fire
as a flicker of wing catches my gaze.
The path reveals a seat, I pause:
a coo calls “come” – a signal
returned by a trill as the wood erupts
with a cantata springing unseen
as all the hidden throats emerge
to fill the afternoon with hope.
© Carolyn O’Connell
View guest contributor Carolyn O’Connell’s bio HERE