I love the thriving mosses,
And all the fallen leaves.
I love the fruiting mushrooms,
And all the stubborn weeds.
I love the hardy Ivy,
And Brambles routing deep.
I love the little toad road,
The branches on the heap.
I love the lush Lavender
And how it blocks the way.
I love the tree that buds late,
And the Bluebells every May.
I love the Trailing Willow,
The Rosemary, Chives, and Sage.
I love the Creeping Thistles
At every single stage.
I love to see my garden
In wilder shades of green.
I know some can’t quite see it
But
It’s beautifully pristine.
-Essie Parker Walsh
Tag: nature poetry
Little Bird.
At the darkest time of the year
What joy to find you perching here
Upon the bare and sleeping oak
A merry song, a shim’ring cloak
To warm me in the harsh steel-grey
Of winter’s night and winter’s day
I’ll go with lighter step and mind
And leave my heaviness behind.
What a pleasure to hear your song
Up in the trees all winter long
-Essie Parker Walsh
The Price Of Detachment.
The way is thick with a silvery haze,
And rich with winter’s fruit.
A fleece of moss hugs tight
The feet of our elders,
Who stand regal in crownless slumber.
A single loyal Robin on his guard.
An affection of rain
Kisses gently every exposed feature,
Promising new life.
Steady is the rhythm
Of this still breathing wood,
It moves with intention.
Not a thing is wasted,
Even decay is nectar.
Hours bead like water
On Wild Garlic shoots,
They pool about the stems,
And the day draws itself out before me.
The estranged march past it,
Severed and unseeing.
Time to them is but a number
That slips away.
They take no notice of the symphony
Of the gentle wild
That inspires me.
That devours me.
That devastates me.
– Essie Parker Walsh
Essie P.W 