As I step where no loud thoughts are found,
A narrow path, soft, winding through
A sea of hush and dusky blue.
The light is low, a golden thread
That weaves through branches overhead,
It spills in pools on moss and tree,
Then gently fades to memory.
I walk between the bluebells there,
Their velvet glow like whispered prayer,
Each fragile bloom bows low and deep,
As if the woods themselves still sleep.
And oh—the scent… so soft, so sweet,
It rises warm beneath my feet,
A drifting calm, both faint and true,
Like something old I almost knew.
It wraps around my chest, my breath,
A quiet balm for ache and depth,
As though the air has learned to hold
The stories never fully told.
The evening light grows thin and pale,
A silver hush, a cooling veil,
And in that glow, the world feels wide—
Yet all I need is here inside.
No rush, no past, no pressing sound,
Just sacred steps on yielding ground,
The day lets go, the night draws near,
And something shifts, so calm, so clear.
I do not speak—I simply be,
With earth and root and bending tree,
And in the bluebells’ gentle sway,
I feel myself drift far away…
Not lost—but found in quiet grace,
Held in this tender, fleeting place,
Where scent and light and spirit blend—
And I am whole, without an end.