It was good to find the secret silence in the earth,
To be among roots, gnarled and worn only
By the wild creatures of the holloway.
Inside the whale-ribbed forest
There was a strange bee drone, an earth hum.
Footfall and the plodding hoof
And the rambling carts have dug deep
As the soft
rock as yielded.
Rivers of
rain have converged
To snake
through the soft soil and stones,
Deeper and
deeper into the martyrs lair;
Soon the lane
is sunken into fleeting shadow
Weaving
through the roots of time.
Then the
trees, slender ash, holly, beech
And elm,
reach over to join and lace together
As if in
prayer, as if to conceal the secret maze
Even from
moon and star.
Soon the road
becomes lost in the landscape,
Lost to
memory like a fading picture.
Yet memories
still linger as shades,
Fixed in the
very fabric of the place,
Recording
your pilgrimage, your journey
Through the
dimness of the old way.
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