Spirits of the Sylvan Weald

A poem of woodland alchemy

Image by Ken Martin

In the deep of the woodlands
among the fresh scent of the leaves
is a presence, an anima of
diaphonous dryads shining
nymphs of the sylvan weald,
slender floating sylphs of the air,
silent sprites of dark calm waters

Walk beneath the great tall trees
in the sun-dappled softness
when no one else is near and
you may feel their thoughts
dancing lightly on the back of your neck

Peer into the darkling waters of a vernal pool
and you may see Another beside you
a fleeting image of a small face —
reflection or mirage, you cannot be sure

The woods hold the allure of wild that we all need to touch and bounce off and dive deep within. Breathe in the magic, nature is the purist source of rejuvenation.

Elves in the Garden

Mare Imbrium