The Thinking Poet


The Path Through Millfield Wood

I shall remember the path through Millfield wood as metaphor:

The stretching of reluctant sinew, the bidding of unwilling bone.

Eyes focused on a narrow footpath

Like mine-detectors, searching for flints and stumps

Concealed beneath autumnís leaf-litter,

And for those ankle-snatching brambles that would trip

Just as the snatch-sight of a redbreast

Wrests from me attentionís watch.

The track narrows, darkness like an ambush

Wraps us in its fetid, fungal breath.


Then suddenly, light!

A welcome respite,

A bursting out, a gaol-break.

Breath gasps as the rising path

Grasps at my laboured intake,

But there, just in view, the bench.

A plain wooden slab where we can sit

And rest our eyes upon a townís drab sprawl

Ameliorated by tree-wrapped hills

That cup an ordered audacity in healing hands.


The path suddenly made smooth.

Darkness dissolving into light.

Ascent and rest.

The saving gift of forgiving grace.

Metaphor: a moment of Godís own sight.