Awakening. A poem by Robert Nesbitt

At First,
there is a calmness
in the night’s air,
before it’s breath tightens
the skin around your face.
It’s mood heard
in the chirring of insects,
the solitary caw,
the scurry of claws, or
the howl imagined
in these curbed surroundings.
For the woodland trees are

gathering, circling,
tilting knotted heads and moon-
lit silhouetted husks, staring.
As though prepared
to strike, drawn by
the beat of a restless heart.
And, between their limbs,
the rain comes
leaving wet beads
on shivering skin,
turning to miniature streams,
but then,

in the shallows
of the morning, the aroma
of deep moss, pine, peat,
of honeysuckle,
the citrus scents of bog myrtle,
of ling and bell heather,
of sundews and butterwort,
all flavouring the light
that stretches,
warming flesh,
the fallen leaf, twig,
the bark laden ground.