Ainsdale Forest

this stillness is as empty
as the space between atoms
as vacant as worn pews
in a deserted church
and only the throat erupted
ripple of solitary bird song stipples
the forest air with sensuous sound
that drips through dim greenery
to fade into the cone-littered
scented floor where
towards the dusked edge
the brittle beech leaves
whisper as grey rabbits pass
with orange patches behind
alert upright ears to feed watchful
on the short sweet grass
or to leap soundlessly away
from my suspect intrusion

Alan Corkish