The Watcher in the Wood
Once, she danced where tide pools gleamed,
A child of foam, of salt and dream.
Her laughter laced the curling waves,
Her footprints kissed the ocean’s caves.
She knew the tongues of drifting kelp,
The whispered songs of things that dwelt
Beneath the surf, in shadowed halls—
Where sailors swore they heard her calls.
But time is cruel, and time is deep,
It pulls, it takes, it does not keep.
A curse was cast, a fate was spun,
By jealous sea or vengeful sun.
Now wood holds what water lost,
Her form embraced, her soul the cost.
The brine still lingers in her grin,
A frozen jest, a debt within.
She waits for one who’ll touch the grain,
Who’ll hear her voice in falling rain.
For whispers stir when storms draw near,
And if you listen—you will hear.
Would you trace her weathered face?
Or leave her bound in time’s embrace?
Tonight, I finally went out with my camera for the first time this month, and for some reason, I kept seeing faces everywhere. It’s always interesting how some days, the smallest details or unexpected shapes seem to stand out more than others. This particular face caught my eye, weathered and silent, yet full of presence.
I couldn’t help but imagine a story behind it—of something ancient, something lost and waiting. That feeling inspired this poem, The Watcher in the Wood. It’s a reflection of how time, nature, and memory can intertwine, leaving behind whispers in the things we pass by every day.
Just wanted to share this moment and the poem it sparked—do you ever see faces in unexpected places?
