WRITING – BEECH, BARK, BOOK

At the writing week 
ten years ago
I walked past the wild gory colours, 
glories of flowers
To stand in the still centre of beech,

Trees of wisdom, tall, elegant, generous,
allowing me entry to the sacred space,
the green stained window above,
Coverlet of countless leaves
Uncounted and yet counting
layering 
   light, 
           colour, 
                    texture
Layering beauty on beauty.

It was May and months to go
Before the beech washes her babies
In gold and lets them drop.

And I writing my first chapter of a first book
Not knowing how much it would cost,
Flowing out countless words, yet counted,
Layering one on another, 
light,
         colour, 
                                             texture of the story
So many words.

Beech, bark, book,
Both writing and being written
Inscribing, growing
Releasing into an unknown world.
Letting the babies turn to gold
And drop.

Did you know, beloved beech,
How much it would cost?

And how little in the end
That would matter?