The Forest

The woods are where I feel most at home, away from clutter, prose and poem;

with trees, natural forms, I feel more free, that I have returned to where I should be.

Otherwise, by Georgian window, at walnut desk, languid, by all muses dispossessed;

distracted by empirical concerns, work eschewed, of indolence I often myself accuse.

Each daily walk, at first wearily, I pass the Institute for Logotherapy,

cross over the footbridge, into the forest, here arise the feelings most cherished.

The adventure begun, relief well-timed: a transposition of peculiar kind;

now flourishing, sensible to denser formations, the change of light, vivacity, imagination.

Along the tree-lined bank of the Amper, sun glitter shimmering across the river,

following me all the way to Schöngeising; moss, leaves, fungi, my hungry eye appeasing.

This is to where I always return, the trees and quiet, for which I yearn.

Before, by water, my hibernating spirit flowed, a small flame, never extinguished, glowed;

I waited for a mobilisation of the will, renaissance, regeneration, a quest to fulfil.

None came, but how I longed for such, amid the smell of the Fir, Spruce, Larch;

in the woods I searched, searched, with the Beech, Oak, slender white of the Birch.

In the winter, an occasional wonder. I danced in the snow, sometimes too far,

bedazzled from the radiated light, faint from dizzy endeavour.

Back at my desk, I ponder: has my imagination, creation, been squandered?

in some discomfort, some dismay, I think: have I anything left to say?

Now, my walk is with more solemn demeanour, hour after hour, just myself and Medeina.

This is to where I always return, the trees and quiet, for which I yearn.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

2026

Matters Foreign and Domestic (Die Au-Pair-Mädchen)

Often prey to luscious musing,

to calamitous infatuation;

and -thus enraptured- so bemused,

paralysed by enfeebling devotion.

Whence came this propensity?

the desire to worship at a shrine;

destined to repeat with such intensity,

this cursed, wearisome tale over time.

In the 1950’s, when I was young,

a succession of au-pair girls came;

from post-war Europe, part ‘help’ part Nanny,

I remember their faces, voices, names.

They magically appeared, transformed my world,

these young women who came to stay;

by strange inflections I was lulled,

at mealtimes, bedtime, bath time, play.

German accompanied my cereal, Italian my games,

from modulation, cadence, beguiled;

times of inventing, pretending, unconstrained,

a sensitive child with imagination wild.

I’ve wondered if such manifestations,

these appearances of another kind,

…in the way of astonishing visions,

set the patterns of my mind.

In between the visitations:

inertia, bewilderment, melancholy,

a yearning for the next liberation,

from colourless insufficient reality.

Then they would come! Oh Blessed Day,

bringing new scents, movement, sounds,

fascination, hope perhaps,

a change in mood, quite profound.

So the pattern was established:

dormancy, waiting, waiting, then

expectation, excitement, advent, bliss.

When they left, desolation, abandonment.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

2026