From its tentative first word (‘perhaps’) to the final phrase, realising ‘here is no journey / only attending to stones— / like a story told yet again / by an old friend’, the reader is immersed in a woodland that is alive with quiet yet profound epiphanies—the way we live and die; the way we might weave narratives that change our stories. In this liminal place, which is both a real woodland and an internal space, we learn that ‘What matters is the silence that encircles you...’ And we find in that silence a liturgy of the natural world we too often forget we are part of.
