How Nature Can Inspire Your Inner Poet

 

As the last days of summer mingled with autumn I went for a walk, wanting to feel heat on my skin one more time before the cold came.  I took my journal, a pen, a blanket and my dog, Elsie.  I went to a place that’s quiet.  I had in mind a spot at the top of a hill known by locals as ‘Two Pine.’

  Our family hike to Two Pine earlier in the summer

Our family hike to Two Pine earlier in the summer

I lay down in the sun up there and closed my eyes.  My head was filled with the sounds of the place: Squirrels, creaking trees, rustling grasses.  A little pine resin scented the air.   Eventually I sat up and looked at the mountains in the near-ish distance.  They were completely white whilst the land around me still had a little summer left in it.  The mountains were close enough that I knew their snow would cover this place in a week or two.

I found myself imagining what it would be like to be Two Pine – the twin trees who stand at the top of this hill.  I looked around me and saw that the way up was filled mostly with deciduous poplars and aspens.  There were a few pine trees but Two Pine was mostly alone up here.  It’s needles would soon be the only green of this place.  I wrote this poem that day.  Perhaps one day you can go out with a journal or a sketchbook in hand and let your mind wander and create something inspired by nature.

  Our family hike to Two Pine earlier in the summer

Our family hike to Two Pine earlier in the summer

To write of the place you are in helps you feel connected to it, helps you belong, more deeply.


Two Pine

By Lucy Paget

 

‘Winter’ the peaks said from far away.

They lined the edge of the world, standing on guard.

Winter had already anointed them with cold and white.

The mountains stood strong, a sanctuary to themselves.

 

Nearby Summer and Autumn sighed.

Cricket chimed, swaying on straw like grass.

The path up to Two Pine gleamed golden with trees fallen children.

Springs play of green was long gone.

 

Two Pine stood ready, knowing.

She had stood here through winter for all the years she could remember.

She had stood here, looking at the peaks, through winter, whilst others closed their eyes, drew in, went to the belly of mother earth.

Protector.  Beacon.

All the green of this earth, except hers, soon would be gone.

Some barely noticed her.  But the peaks at the edge of the world saw her.

‘Winter’ she heard them say again, to her.