We beg the darkening clouds to scatter -      

let the forest breathe with light.

Wind-whipped trees

see-saw and splay as     

light patterns flicker

              from trunk

                       to trunk.

Light crackles on pinecone, snail-shell,

on limbs of cypress, larch, and spruce,

finding sanctuary, to lie sated,

sharp-scented on the tongue.


Light smudges skin with amber,

lands softly on mushroom and moss,

unveils the feather’s perfect marl,

the sage-like serenity of lichen.         

We beg the darkening clouds to scatter,        

and the forest breathes with light.


Poetry copyright © Frances Ainslie 2021