Been
a while since i walked in the woods, until recently. No need to
prefix that with 'it's'. The word 'it',is a linguistic phantom,
totally superfluous.
Show
me the 'it', in, 'it is raining'. There isn't one. Nothing but
rain. All afternoon.
There
are no words for any of this. Which is why i needed some good photos
to illustrate the words i haven't written yet. A short bus ride to
the nearest woodland. I'm always glad to get off a bus.
Walk
a winding trail along the river under tall oaks. The river swollen
and swift, swirling in shallows. Brown leaves on the dark current.
Rain
falling into rain.
I
could stay content by the glowing fire, but i needed to walk away
from infrastructure. The leaves are turning into antique harmonies
and clustering in gutters and hollows.
So
it's a quest in the wet. More than just a walk in a forest park.
Crossing over dark, soaked wooden bridges. Footfalls on a forest
path toward the big meadow, and beyond.
It's
best to forget where you think you are, and mindful enough not to
think about it. Walking at leisure moment by moment. There is only
this moment and it's always here, with nowhere else to be.
The
real wonder is, walking on the earth. While the planet spins a
thousand miles per hour on it's axis. Orbits at sixty-seven thousand
miles per hour round the sun. 4.883000 miles per hour round the
galactic centre.
Even
as i pause and stand in soft Munster rain, we are hurtling into
uncharted space.
Here
i branch off and hop a beech leaf bedded rivulet, wrinkled with
concentric ripple droplets. Meander with stealth the mulch cushioned
incline. With gripless shoes where brittle sticks crack.
Black
tree trunks, wet and moss clad tower in tiers to the canopy above.
Cascading in yellowing vivid sprays. Slender branches lightly
shudder letting small drops fall.
Into
the thicket on the summit of a rise, my intended destination, falls
sheer down to oak gnarled gully below. Overhung with misty drizzle
like a serene Sung Dynasty scroll.
Richness
underfoot, and how to step without a twig crack ? Where rain drips
down perpetual into moss, patters leaves and vivid fungal growth
pristine and undisturbed. Pointilist patterns of soft sound in an
even absence of birdsong.
Immersed
without need to think, but look and listen in visible rain, embedded
in organic weave of wild self seeding fertility in perpetuity. Ripe
red scatterings, holly berries festive among laced moss tufts and
detritus, each in its perfect place.
All
this leaf fall is a beech brown carpet of ferment and mulch.
Steadies my steps to squelch lest i slip descending. Go down
sideways step by step crablike lacking better grips without grasping
for rotted stumps that snap or crumble.
But
got lots of shots, forty two in total. Lifetime of crap cameras and
questing in vain.
Now,
most all i click turns to gold and original vision sustains enhanced.
On
a copper bronze strewn pitted path passing by a small wrinkling grey
lake fringed with crusted pine. Outcrop islands overgrown by
burgeoning birch and conifer saplings, thick auburn bracken strands
and grass bowed down
colours
enriched by rain.
A
heron. Grey, erect and motionless, rainproof on a rock at the
lake's edge. Just out of range of my zoom.
I
just watch. Both silent, both aware in our own peculiar way.
But
what an ancient glimpse. Grey heron in rain with lakeside pine.
Primal. The Tao. There are no words for all this.
Till
the wet evening darkens, and drifting mist turns distant peaks to
grey phantoms.
Home
to the hearth, to eat and dry by heat of fire.
Some
days later, a neighbour remarked, "Twas shocking weather we had
on Sunday."
"Mmm,"
i mused, "Well i enjoyed it."
~
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Rainbowmaker~
Photoshoot:
QUEST IN THE WET, martin law
