The Woodland Lantern

Its glow spills softly on bark and bone,
On twisted forms the tree has grown;
For in the grain, dim faces hide,
And hollow eyes stare open wide.

They seem to breathe — the wood’s own kin,
With time and silence folded in;
Their murmurs drift through moss and air,
Like dreams of souls still lingering there.

The scent is thick with earth and rain,
With damp decay and sweet refrain —
Of fallen leaves, of bark half-dead,
Of secrets murmured, never said.

A hush hangs low, the woodland deep,
Where shadows wake and wild things sleep;
The air hums faint — a tender sound,
Of sap that moves beneath the ground.

A daddy longlegs, spindly and shy,
Descends up on the lantern’s light
The warmth beneath its fragile dome —
A trembling guest, so far from home.

Its legs brush lightly at the rim,
As if in awe of something dim —
A glow not made by fire or sun,
But born when night and earth are one.

The tree looms close, its bark a face,
A skull, a whisper, death’s embrace;
Yet in that dark, the light remains,
Defying rot, outlasting chains.

It hums with peace, a breath, a chord,
The sound of silence long adored;
A stillness woven fine as lace,
That time itself will not erase.

The lantern sways — a holy thing,
That mocks the dark and makes it sing;
Its glow a promise, calm and small,
That nature still outlives us all.

And as the night drips soft with dew,
The hawthorn sighs — the old made new;
Even in decay’s domain,
The woodland learns to dream again.