There’s a story hiding in the woods –
it hangs like mist among the boughs
waiting for a mouth to fill.
It’s made of wishes never voiced,
discarded words from poets’ bins,
ideas lost in last night’s wine.
It hovers in the patient shade,
stirs sorrel leaves and celandine.
In midday sun, from furrowed rows,
a strawberry picker slowly stands,
concaves her spine with hands on hips,
gazes west – there is a dream
she cannot name;
it’s in those woods.
And in the filed where crows pick stubble,
edged by bleached-bone, dry-stone walls,
a spirit lingers of tanned hands
that placed each untold rock with falls.
© Caroline Fox Betts 2010