Cut ash afoot, live ash ahead, waiting silent at the rise. Golden grass to green leafed trees living past, living here, living now, remember as you greet them their roots feed in the black beneath. Remember, as the path turns to stone, the isle itself, with its green ash grove rests in turn on the deep black beneath. Numinous once it is ordinary now. A small shade green grove, quiet, with an oak at its heart.
Birds sing and small beasts live on bough and on moulded ground their older brothers shunned.
You may feel a breeze. It was not always so. The wind has not always entered here, no storm was welcome. The leaves rustled to a different gale. All rights reserved.