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I was inspired to write this poem during a walk I did in Coombes valley, a wooded hilly valley and part of the Churnet Valley in the Staffordshire Moorlands, England. There were no other humans present, just me, the landscape, the beauty of nature and other living creatures. This was a time to walk softly, to sit still, to observe, to listen and reflect, to think, to feel.

The Leaves Have fallen

Pz-avatarby Dean Powell10 Jul 2013

The leaves have fallen, the trees not dead but without
Clothing. It is deep winter here, the afternoon cold with
Frost on the ground, a hilly wooded kingdom. There is
Peace and stillness but for the rhythm of nature and the
Voice of the many speaking to my soul.

I inhale clean cold air; absorb the tranquillity of this
Place; sit amongst the tree people, a wooded world I
Share with Friends. There is the coming and going of
The seasons, the changes of light and mood, my thoughts,
My feelings, my love for nature. I savour the moment.

The quiet chatter of birds, my senses tuned to this
Avenue of nature’s beauty. Bullfinches feed on the
Ground, Chaffinches call, a Blackbird is perched. Blue
Tits, Great Tits Manoeuvre around branches. A Robin
Moves between Stone wall, hedge and tree, an observer
Keeping watch. Feeding, Feeding, feeding is the name
Of the game these birds play. Perhaps I am an
Intruder in their world, not to be Trusted; I am
Watched by many eyes.

A distant babbling brook of watery conversations
Moving forward with timeless simplicity, conversations
That will not return but are not lost forever. Here
Non-native Crayfish hide and lurk, Dippers and Grey
Wagtails live and breed but none seen today. I am at
The water’s edge and high above me the call of a
Buzzard reaches me from afar in this tree wilderness
We share, that we are part of.

The Kestrel is perched, its head moving, looking,
Searching then taking to the air its flight agile, quick,
Sometimes hovering, a sweet ballet of avian order. I
Long for spring, the call of the April Cuckoo bringing
Warmth to my heart, migrant birds from distant lands,
The magnificent Pied Flycatcher, the Redstart,
Whitethroat and Tree pipit. There is room for them all
And they will return.

The sun to the west is low, falling, falling, falling behind
Clouds yellow and orange. Leafless are the trees, all
Is now quiet, darkness beckons. Life, nature, sacred
Nature is all around me. I am not separate from nature,
I am here, and there is room for me here, for us all and
We dance on the soil of the Earth.