For Linsky

I always believed the woods weremade up of alder and birch, grown for coppicing, felt familiar with theirskinny, light-seeking trunks, the bounces left behind by squirrels in their highbranches, the insistent knocks of woodpeckers. 

Perhaps I have somehow missed runningthrough them in early July, or if I did was more concerned with avoiding treeroots and the ankle-twisting hardened ruts of mud because I have never before witnessedthis … 

… what looks like, for the briefestof moments, thousands of hairy caterpillars draped over brambles, holly bushes,ferns, before they quickly reveal themselves to be the long yellow catkins froma mature sweet chestnut tree.

Running serves me well, my bodyand mind rebalancing with every stride, each deep breath, but this morning’sslow stroll is a gift from a friend searching for flowers and leaves she can pressinto eternity.

Castanea sativa, literally ‘brown chestnut’. The deceptionof the ordinary. The wondrousness of it all.