Come, lay down your lap top
and turn off your plastic cell,
listen as the wind shakes
fern, toadstool and flower bell
that grows within the greenwood.
A tremble of shade and scent.
The fox has dissolved into shadow
and leaves some of the tall grass bent
as she slinks back to her burrow
carrying secrets of the night,
and whispers from the cloven pine.
With her, your wild soul takes flight
along a pathway where time
becomes the wheel on which you spin
thoughts and dreams of who you are
opposed to where you’ve lately been
in a blue maze of screens and text.
You have forgotten how to run
with stream water in your veins
and bones kindled by the evening sun.
Once you were fox, wind and light
knowing tales etched in bark or stone,
mistress of this timbered house
with instincts you’re struggling to re-own.
link to Wordsworth’s 19th C. poem