There is a silent magic here on this
wooded hill – despite the hiss of distant
traffic, the chink of halyards in the river
below, and, near but out of sight, dog walkers’
whistles, courters’ banter – a hush,
a stillness. Oak and beech and fern still
in rich autumn hues of gold and copper
obscure fawns and nymphs and wood sprites that
only the eye’s corner may glimpse. Light rain falls.
We hear it first on fallen leaves before
we feel it. There is enchantment here,
fear and joy, as we mount the summit,
triumphant, breathless – and a rainbow
glimpsed through the canopy.