Footprints In Moss

A place I love to be
Is the wild forgotten forest,
Where the trees grow thick
And the sunlight is dappled.
Leaves whisper all about
And a certain silence,
That you find nowhere else,
Fills your ears when the wind drops.
The soft crunch of pine needles
And moss beneath your feet
As you tread gently in these untamed places,
Whose only mark left on leaving
Is a stray leaf in your hair,
Or a scratch you never felt.

These places are alive with sights
And sounds that feed the soul.
The feeling of being so small
As you gaze upwards at the silent giants,
That stretch their limbs ever higher
Reaching for the sun.
The meeting of sunlight and rain
Beneath the canopy of the trees
Is something to behold.
The sweet drops that kiss your cheeks
Before they splosh upon the earth,
The ringing like tiny bells that sound all around
As they break upon the leaves.

In winter the forest sleeps,
Covered in a shroud of untouched snow.
The skeletons of summer trees,
Coated in apparent softness,
The truth discovered only by the touch
Of an ungloved hand.
From the melted snows appear
The shy new buds of spring,
Barely peeking from the still cold earth.
The summer in its turn unfolds
In a flourish of brilliant green,
Every leaf aglow with the warmth of the sun,
Until a fire of autumn colours begin to burn,
Consuming the forest in russet tones.

In these places we must take only memories
And Leave only foot prints in the moss.