I walked in the new wood in the spring of my age;
bright green leaves unfurling, like flags in the wind;
ramsoms perfume strong, and bluebells gently dancing.
Sprightly was my dance then, light footed on the grass;
bright shafts of golden sun through the branches lancing.
I walked in the green wood in the summer of my age;
heavy blossom perfumed, bees humming loud;
sunshine overhead, humid, hot and burning.
Sultry was my dance then, seductive in the shade;
birds muted shrilling, berries’ colour turning.
I walked in the golden wood, in the autumn of my age;
chill air on the leaves, setting them a-rustling;
bright pheasant flying, rousted from his cover;
fungus all a-sprouting, cream & rust & red.
Hurried was my dance then, rain clouds gathering;
seed heads full to bursting, summer now is dead.
I walked in the naked wood, in the winter of my age;
branches bare & barren, the sky of ochre cloud;
there the golden promise lies, a carpet all of rust.
Slow & halting was my dance then, a memory of grace;
all the joys & sorrows, all the dreams & dust.
I walk among the tall trees, in all the seasons of my age;
remembering sun & rainfall, the curses & the blest;
the mountains I had climbed, the sea shores I had waded.
Eternal is my dance now, amid stars & moonlight, darkness & the dawn;
In all the changing patterns, not a memory has faded.