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