Climbing The Old Oak. Poem by Michael Cochrane

The fields of summer flowers, the little skylark above the meadow. The river cart flowing swiftly, as a child discovering the perfect nature of the forest, the scent of pine trees, watching the changing shimmering light cast shadows and glimpses of the sun through the canopy, which was my playground. Climbing up an old ancient oak, to feel the air and survey the horizon, such experiences never leave me, they are etched into my very being.
Michael Cochrane ©