Woodland Forays

Returning after so many years
the meadow is now ringed
with trees and the forest beyond
looks denser, darker than our
memory validates. Here the ripe
red haws of Hawthorns punctuate
the early autumn verdance, and
old grape vines loop over
dead conifer branches, their
sour, dark clusters food for birds.
American bittersweet twines
about the narrow trunks of birch
as we diverge and descend the
trail delving into the inner woods
the old gnarled trunk of the
venerable pine guarding the
passage even more contortedly
regal than last seen decades ago.
We recall every twist and turn of
that trail, complete with memory
of the little black dog who
accompanied us. There, over 
there, mounted on the slope above
is the recalled copse of cedars.
There, over there, is the dark
form of our little companion still
shadowing our woodland forays.