Beech roots mesh beneath my feet;
skinny sinews penetrate my soles.
Trunks divide in branches ribbing skyward;
springtime leaves deck out in vaults above.
Chaotic canopies yield to April sunshine,
bathing all below in lime-green light.
The thoughtless leaves caress
each other’s patterned veins:
Forget, they say, the darkness of your plague
and think of what it means to live.
Fear keeps you and me apart,
but this wood’s fractals mingle unperturbed.
Bill Richardson published some poems as a young man but wrote little during decades of teaching at second and third levels. A native of Dublin, he is now Emeritus Professor of Spanish at the National University of Ireland Galway and has re-engaged in recent years with his passion for creative writing.