Making a Clearing

Making a Clearing

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep.."
(Robert Frost)

These woods we stopped by,
pushed in, parted brambles
that hung on our stung hands.
We smelt like a compost
of leaves after hours
of slow tramping until
we lighted on the place.

This was the spot
to start the cutting back,
clear enough space
to see stars by,
build a fire for bracken
burning, pitch a tent.

We circled slowly outwards
clearing the undergrowth.
I cut, you burnt,
for days we breathed woodsmoke,
wept continuous tears.

So was it clearing we did
in the wood that year
or a quest for clarity?
Whatever it was
that space is now regrown.
We slept little,
we promised nothing.
Categorized as Poems

By Arthur Richardson

Very part time poem maker. Retired from paid work.

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