Sometimes

Sometimes

The scale of it

The smell of it

The colour of it

The deep brown, earthy tang

Of it.

So many vibrant greens

The stretch of

A flexing sapling

The girth of an Oak

An old monk’s belly

The breadth of a smile

The weft of life

Woven through

With blood and sap.

No amount of magic

Would suffice

To hold it in your hand

To bring it to an end

Make it less than grand

Less than Eden

And it is not

An anomaly

There may well

Be a thousand,

Times a thousand,

Wonders,

Worlds,

Without end.