Footsteps of man and beast
lie cushioned by ancient pine.
Centuries of fragrant needles.
The spirit of the path breathes a cool, damp sigh
turning leaves softly over;
whispering through high branches.
Gently shifting the mist.
The way of the path is blurred and smudged
with prints of hooves and paws.
Small paths leave it to explore
while it wanders gently on.
Travellers on the path step quietly. Heads lift
and eyes pierce through the trees.
Nostrils scenting, ears pricked.
They hear the path's song.
The song of the path is ancient and low.
Remembrance of bonds and affinities
forged in ancient days
reach out to touch it.
The colours of the path are earth and tree
snow and leaf. Sky and sunset
seen through bare branches
create stained glass windows.
The seasons of the path turn round and round
one upon the other.
Waking, nourishing, sleeping again
on the wheel of rolling time.