In The Woods The wood holds a ruin: vestigial altar, and a remnant of wall faith built centuries ago. Beech trees roof it now and bluebells floor it. A carved Christ presides, arms outstretched, invites you to sit in among choirs of birdsong. I bring the ashes here, place them on the broken altar stones and go. The seasons’ turns will scatter them, grain by grain, and set him free. Foxes will nose the gray heap and badgers spread the remains, and Christ will hang there, arms outstretched, weary, compassionate.
Beth Brooke is a retired teacher, living on the Jurassic Coast of Dorset and drawing inspiration from its landscape. She is a Quaker. She has had poems published in a variety of journals and is currently working on her first poetry collection.
Amethyst Review 