Bushwalk in the Rain

American naturalist and essayist John Burroughs penned long ago... 

                                    I go to nature to be soothed and healed

                                       and to have my senses put in order

Not that my senses are currently in disarray, but with that in mind even the gathering of leaden clouds was not going to deter me from heading out for a much-needed dose of natural tonic. The bush is almost on my doorstep, but like most wonders right under our nose we tend to take them for granted until the moment comes when the urge to replenish our spirits overtakes the need to vacuum the house or deal with another pile of paperwork. And in the process, Bushwalk in the Rain was born.

It was wet   
but not particularly cold
though I chose
the wrong day
to not wear a scarf

My progress is always
interminably slow
for I spend more time
looking at my feet
than the vistas
hidden beyond the trees

The world of small things
captivates me most
maybe because I am also small
but the tiny treasures
mostly unseen
those quiet and unobtrusive things
reveal themselves as into your pores
eucalyptus seeps.

You’re barely aware
of the slowing down
this sense of calm
the rhythm change
you venture on and with each stride
your eyes are opened
and more beside

From both sides of the mossy track
images come, however brief
lifelike shapes in lichen on rocks
trees with falling-down mossy socks
rays of light through fungi gills
tiny wattle pom poms, a lichen leaf

Rust coloured fungi on lime-green moss
grey-green algae on ancient rocks
the muted hiss of the rain through leaves
and puddles reflecting
the tops of the trees

The sandstone lookout
with its wet park bench
offers a welcome resting place
to be drawn in, let all else go
in silence be somehow renewed
in this ever-evolving bushland space

I’m both on the ground
and in the treetops
literally right on the very edge.
This massive rock, this precipice,
this drop-off point
from the world up here
to that below
reveals a glimpse of what’s beyond.

Low cloud kissing
the tops of trees
white cockatoos disturbing the peace
old trees bearing scars
of storm ravaged years
while new growth sprouts
from some of their wounds.
I’m surrounded by giants
as well as the small
while a bluish haze
pervades it all

As the breeze picks up
the canopy stirs
leaves take up the merry dance
shedding excess drops
into my lap
and right on cue
the rain which had passed
has now returned.

Once more it soaks through
the hood of my coat
and trickles down
the back of my neck.
I chose the wrong day
to not wear a scarf.