Wistmans’ Wood

older and wiser than any living thing around

these pendunculate oaks give ground

to nothing and no one, the roots like tentacles

trying to clasp the boulders and shackle

cryptogam encased granite to the steeping

slope, whiskery fronds of fern and lichen

dreep from ledges and branches, the sun

streams in between, giving translucence

to the green of the moss smothered rocks.

I look amongst the crevices and cracks

for acorns that are not anywhere here,

nowhere on, or in, or under the layers

of copper crisped leaves is the small

cup encrusted nut, nowhere at all.