The Habit of Hazel

SWT Southwick Reserve

by Robin Leiper

The crackle of leaf-litter underfoot, the brittle 
silence of the chill-blue November gloam ─ 

the sense of an intrusion. Your adopted 
woodland. Yours? Your habit to come here. 

The trees have no use for you who 
is used to making use of everything. 

The hazel occupies its place of quiet wilderness 
here in the mid-storey, tells its own tale, 

lives long, brings its poem to an end 
in its own good time, has no hungering  

after immortality ─ it is only you who wants 
to live forever, who wants to set things  

right, straighten everything, make them 
last, meddle here with your imagined magic. 

Fast rooted, many stemmed, the hazel’s habit 
is to tangle, grow awry, seeking the elusive 

light. Learn the lesson of its ways, go 
your own and other wise, leave things be.