“Whose woods these are I think I know…”
They were the gift of broken-hearted parents, whose
daughter, Hazel, died. Anyone now can walk through these woods,
individuals, cars swallowed in the dark green silence. These
sycamores, oaks and holly have stood here decades, and there are
bluebell sheets in May, rotting leaf layers in autumn. I
come here to get away from traffic and headlines, and to think.
Foxes and badgers don’t disturb me. I
remember all three, but their faces, their pain, I can’t know.
A ‘Golden Shovel’ poem by Merryn Williams