A fresh year And a mist lies heavy on the earth The hills are hidden The bracken purple-brown, wet The gorse a scouring haze The fir trees still With chilled cheeks and fingertips We tread the spongy earth Moss underfoot, stone, red clay A carving splits the hillside Green needles scent the air Dogs run In the woods Trunks greened by damp and time Branches elbow-crooked reach upward Time is a myth, all years exist in one The trees stand silent guardians We pass along