Walking in the Woods

Out walking in the woods, I saw a monk.

He’d turned up from the thirteenth century.

I wasn’t mad. I wasn’t high or drunk

although perhaps it’s what I’d hoped to see.

It doesn’t really matter what was real.

Reality is over-rated, friend.

The greater truth is found in what you feel

and that’s what really matters in the end.

The monk himself was walking in the wood

and I suppose he felt that he saw me.

We raised our hands then silently we stood,

two saplings shielded by an old yew tree.

We stand there still, and more of us have come

to listen to the ancient forest hum.