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.
2 thoughts on “The Path”
poignant indeed Thanks Bob for articulating these feelings, which I also share….
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So true of many lost woods and fields