Under The Tree, By The River

It takes a little while to get there:

Through the village, right to the end,

Down the hill, through the woods,

Over the stream, across the meadow,

To the spot under the tree, by the river.

Sometimes, there are more people there:

Walkers with their dogs,

Children playing in the shallows,

A tractor in the field over, or a herd of sheep.

But I don't mind.

Occasionally, it is just me, alone,

Nestled into the roots of the great oak,

The branches a canopy against the elements.

I enjoy the solitude, the quiet away from

The bustle and bombast of modern life.

A welcome recluse when the world gets too much;

I can read or listen to music or ponder unperturbed.

And even when I'm all alone, I'm not really.

There are birds in the boughs, crayfish on the riverbed,

Lambs in the fields, squirrels in the woods.

Constant reminders that the world is alive, even in

The quietest of moments.

The serenity of it all is a soothing salve on the whirlwind

Between my ears.

Allowing me to escape the pressure of it all,

If only for a moment -

Sometimes, that is enough.