Worship old oaks,
stood a hundred years of beating hearts.
Bow to tunnels of tree limbs
dancing over dappled lanes,
echoes of horseshoes, carts.
Delight in dense, dark hawthorn hedgerows,
hiding small birds and sharpness,
magical, a maiden’s fall.
Amaze at mosses, ferns seeking quiet comfort,
dew-laden and gentle,
nestled in centuries-old stone walls.
There are so many greens
and so many lives gone before.
Stand in awe.