picking coloured pebbles
from a stream bed
a nest wind blown
goes into her bag
wooden shapes
like faces
pine cones
she will paint
later
the woods are quiet
no-one comes here
so things lie
undisturbed
once long ago
fingers protruded
now long moss grows
as birth creates renewal
so does decay
mushroom and wild garlic
patient years
and long shadows
until the collector
collecting the unusual
to decorate her home
her pockets are full
of feathers
a bird fascination
collaged into crows
to keep stuffed owls
and dancing mice company
the woods
are coming home...