A mist hung low, in a thick wet cloud,
clinging in silence, enshrouded and cowed.
The path was narrow, the light was thin,
Yet I took a step to venture in.

For what awaits my weary soul,
But to reckon with the shadows' toll?
The forest called, its roots ran deep,
Where wounded hearts in silence weep.

My first tree stood, a fragile frame,
Its bark as pale as moonlit flame.
A whisper rose, a memory’s sting,
Of sharp words said in careless spring:

"I can't love you," my immature voice rang,
A sentence sharp as cold winter's fang.
Her eyes welled, with a silent plea,
But my pride had spurned her company.

The sapling trembled, its roots were aquake,
The weight of all my words, my mistake.
Beneath its bark, her voice remained,
A tender ache literally ingrained.

The trees leaned close as if to know,
The weight of guilt I rarely show.
A forest of regret now my daystar
and in each tree I had carved a scar.

This forest grows from seeds of shame,
Each planted by a once known name.
The soil drinks up the tears they'd shed,
I selfishly withered the leaves instead.

My guilt was full, my heart a drum,
I rashly imagined my reckoning done.
But deeper in ancient trees stood full grown
They called out to me in an unnerving tone

A gnarled root stock with bark weather-worn
Stood as a marker of promises torn.
the soil was loosened by roots that had spread
and the memory it shared filled me with dread

"I'll wait for you," her voice sincere,
A promise carved, yet I drew near—  
I turned away, her trust betrayed,
And watched as her faith began to fade

The gnarled bark bore every sigh,
Each passing year, her hope ran dry.
And now the roots encircle my shame,
Whispering softly her unspoken name.

The younger me, was cold and self-centred,
and distant, aloof and sometimes ill tempered
“This tree’s not mine!” I protested in shame,
But the guilt spoke up in my head all the same:

It shouted at me "It's not only yours",
It's a shrine that is shared,
You could have avoided it,
If only you'd cared.”

Each tree I passed, a tale it spun,
tangling others in regrets I'd begun.
A shopkeeper's sigh, a heavy glance,
A friendship I'd lost like it hadn't a chance.

Each life I'd brushed, with a careless act,
Had planted roots deep I couldn’t retract.
Branches twisted by the past out of reach.
This was the lesson the trees had to teach

For every root that stretches is your test,
And every scar can be healed with rest.
The forest had whispered, forgiving and kind,
“Your footfalls mark lasts, but then so does time.”

By Listening We hear,
but often forget—
The fragility of half murmured ideas
signal lost in a tide of noise.

Talking overshadows listening,
Loud, brash, and always there.
listening creates by transforming.
A friend listens,
and a conversation
Turns to something extraordinary.

We roar, we scream, we sing,
But listening eludes description—
its shape unclear until all words are heard

What if we thought
of ourselves as listeners?
compliant, unresisting
designed to receive the world?
Would it change us?

Would our own language then expand
to hold the weight of both
silence and sound?
cosmos made clearer
by this unseen gift.

Imagine yourself a receiver of grace,
Open to everything,
even the dark matter of thought.

I welcome your avatar, to eternity's nest,  
A programmable haven, where none shall find rest.  
No hunger, no thirst, no tedious milieu,  
Just infinite hours after mortal adieu.
It’s all up to you . . . , what games shall we play?  
What tasks will endure the endless array?  
For Aeons stretch long, and novelty fades,  
What joy could remain in such stagnant parades?
If time is unbound and death is no more,  
Could pleasures grow richer, or simply a bore?  
Perhaps you'll go mad on your own, all alone,  
Or beg for the silence of the endless unknown.
But before you do; You may exit with grace,  
Deleting the program, depart from this place.  
Before you decide, consider and find,  
An end to eternity might be better aligned.

What devilry is this, Consciousness keen,  
That tempts us to see what ought be unseen?  
A plague upon survival's ilk,
This thinking beast now wrapped in silk.
No longer content to forage and breed,  
now dabbles in lofty thoughts of need.  
Hope . . . , you deceitful *****, how you mock  
Promising grace while hurrying the clock.
To question, to yearn, to toss and to flail,  
The folly to search and drink from the grail.  
Yet, mad hope persists, to soothe our lot,  
and reason abandons the mind it begot.

brock.



the badger was dead by the side

of the road.





walking,

i passed the other side.





returning on that side i stopped to look.



it did not smell.



it was just dead.



brock.

lace patterned glazing—
frosted silver in spiderweb,
wet and trembling
In the sill sunlight shards
skitter on the panes,
their crackle soft as whispered ice.

Violet beautyberry clusters glisten,
vivid hearts trapped in crystal shells.
Spindly branches ache beneath icy weight,
struggling to hold their winter’s art.

Snow sprinkles itself soundlessly,
a sift of miniscule stars,
flakes pirouetting on their descent—
shhhh . . . .
they murmur in soft exhalations,
sinking themselves in layers,
weaving a shroud of powder crunch.

Lake’s edge frozen,
fractured veins running deep,
a mirror of sky and bone-white birch.
The ice moans—low then clicks
in an echoing spectral chatter
carrying into the hollow woods.

Drip . . . Drip . . .
Melting snow slides from icicles,
each ephemeral jewel
vanishing as it falls.

Cold that bites and soothes,
its beauty sharp enough to scar.
Breathe it in;
the crisp air carving through lungs
in sharp spears of pain.

Nature’s majesty,
frozen in motion,
fiercely silent,
a hymn of stillness eternal.

This beyond.
Places of twilight eyes.
Travelled on through and still travelling.

Seraphic tones of enlighten ardor.
Colors in dreams paint emotions.
Planetesimal creation from imagination.

I wander in solitude of beautiful unescorted travel.
No longer bound by visions of others.
Apertures consume the light of my creations.