The Path

Today I am very pleased to host this fine poem by fellow Holmfirth Writer Bob Trewin.


The Path

The path ran down into a wood,
Or used to; now new close-packed houses crowd
Where once oak, ash and chestnut stood.
The mist was grey and hung low like a shroud.

I followed down a tarmac street
Where once a path had run in dappled shade;
The ground was hard beneath my feet
Where once soft earth and grass had clothed a glade

Beneath a canopy of leaves.
Now huddled shrubs in threadbare gardens stood,
And road names, counterfeit as thieves,
Proclaimed the vanished giants of the wood.

A chill wind stirred the winter’s day
But, as I walked, I fancied that a breeze
Came softly through the dismal grey
And seemed to be the spirits of the trees.

The wood’s no more, but if I try
I can see it still, and feel the air
That moved its leaves and hear the sigh
Of long-lost afternoons, gone who knows where?

Bob Trewin is a lapsed student of literature who graduated in 1970. He did not begin writing seriously until after retirement, following a career in IT during which his only creative output was in the form of functional specifications. He has had two pieces published in The Spectator’s weekly competition and won the 2022 NAWG Open Poetry Competition.