By the Pool in the Woods

Soft milk beneath a dying star

Rests long amongst the Beech

Oh silent tangled banks, how far

do roots of charcoal reach?

What pure intention drives them forth,

that I may once have known?  

And can these deeds upon the earth

In surrender be unsown?

Oh roots clasp me with inky arms

And plunge my shallow form 

Into the ashen catacombs

 So I may be reborn

Reborn above this tawdry rhyme

A little fist of light

Who can but burn, immune to Time

Abstract from former plight

I wrote this about a year ago. The poem came very naturally - I think because I was in one of those weird transition zones between emotions that refuse to be labelled. Anyway, what interests me now is the focus on beech trees. Beech, along with Oak, is a great giant of southern English woodlands. But unlike Oaks, which often appear dilapidated and haphazard, the really old examples of Beech (300 + years) maintain their elegant, sculptural quality. And by moonlight their bark is wonderfully transformed; they tower over the rest of the forest like Daliesque, burnished elephants.

Beech trees migrated to England around 4000 BC via Stone Age settlers who ate their seeds. Beechnuts in fact remained an important rural food source into the modern period. Yet the Beech was never domesticated, due mainly to its extended lifespan (Some trees don’t flower for 50 years). It’s fascinating to consider that prehistoric humans may have therefore collected and distributed the seeds, knowing that only their children, or perhaps even grandchildren, would reap the rewards.