By Master Gardener Ford Balch 1-07
I paused at an old fenceline, an old boundary line,
With darkness approaching it was time to go back,
A grove of pine trees was on the other side,
It’s growth a barrier but I knew a track.
In the pines, it was the shortest way home,
The wind unnoticed until now began to blow-
A sound magnified by the number of trees,
Being steady and eerie it seemed to follow.
Sounds in the forest were told by lore
For it was here that the Satyrs played,
Deities of the woodlands they were merry
And with gaiety danced and drank all day.
At gloaming they fell asleep
Breathing heavily, as they dreamed
Of nymphs chased earlier that day,
And attending to Pan in between.
Pan, the God of Woodlands and Fields,
His music was wind through rushes
At woodland edges where reeds were found,
But most surely it was just a simple gust.
Leaving the pines we go through a field,
It is not far from here to home,
When a bird glides to a tree for the night,
It is a ruffled grouse that is alone.
Leaving the woods I cross the bridge,
Looking back-the ridge is now all dark
But the lights in the village are aglow
As I return to home, until I again embark.
