Last year we came to a place on the South Downs Way that seemed unremarkable…except for the gigantic trees emerging from the swirling mist. Later, this poem was another thing that emerged from those mists!
At Hyden Cross
Summer rides at full pelt & we step
Under the easy rush of hazy, heady southern air
Where hills are near invisible & we are almost lost
Among the criss-crossed lanes, the drizzle
Of drifting clouds descending, dripping,
Dimming those warm, ripe distances.
Our downland world is furred & blurred,
All mosses velvet, tufted, soft along the path,
And our feet soundless, weightless on the cushioned loam.
For us the sole realities are hazels trailing honeysuckle
With tendrils of perfume as curled & intertwined
As the vines themselves. And wild white garlic-stars
Among the smell of last year’s leaves on settled earth:
The rich fragrance of woods in summertime.
At Hyden Cross the path is flanked by beeches.
Rising into the morning fog, they arch around us,
Substantial in the mist’s shape-shifting shadows.
In this dreamscape only they are solid, tangible,
Though all their leaves lift & vanish into lacy light.
So, trembling, we go below them as on holy ground.
© Lizzie Ballagher