I sometimes walk at sunset
through the long woods up beyond my house
where the mournful owl swoops
among the darkening trees.
I pause and listen to the rustle
and scurry of unseen feet, the various
mutterings of the forest.
As the last light fades, I feel afraid,
yet strangely alert
to the nightlife around me.
And I know the electric thrill of freedom,
the elemental rush of tuned senses
as the soft night breezes ruffle my hair
and the mossy ground sinks beneath me.
The stars flicker above, seen intermittently
through the lacy trellis of the treetops,
and the moon casts a silver net of radiance.
Moon-moths brush against my cheek
and somewhere a night-bird calls a piercing note:
a sad, yet exhilarating, sound.
And then I know that I am in my rightful place,
at one with the forward momentum of life,
as the trees around me are anchored in the rich loam
of the forest and the wind shakes my bones
with the knowledge of my affinity to the earth,
my dark and fertile mother.
Bill Fitzsimons