Right of Access (Orignal poetry)

Is to get the earth under the fingernails,
letting ancient ores seep into the skin.
The forest talks to itself in private vernacular,
platitudes in the patter of raindrops.
Off camera, a small copper flurry detaches, silent,
without warning, carrying out a discreet business.
Scarlet berries flung promiscuous among the litter,
unstrung beads from a discarded necklace.
Air stained ochre as autumn leaks its colour
at the edges, and broad-leaf boulevards
stride russet to the vanishing point.

A sudden stream of fallow deer, startled by
their own intent, hurtles from a spinney.
Sighting of an elephant through the holly, trunk
extended, snuffing, foreleg raised - unbelievable -
resolves to tumbled branches huge enough for ships’ timbers.
The oaks lean inwards, waiting only to catch the noon
sun’s eye as it checks each bole for just a second,
leaving me, uncertain settler, in this country
that is not mine, that knows itself alone, a wildness
that has been new for a thousand yesterdays.
But this morning I throw wide the eastern skylight
and call the forest home.

For moments of inspiration look to each other; for what is possible is not merely a dream.