In August 2025 a group of walkers came together to enjoy Poetree. This was billed as a gentle walk (albeit up a very steep hill!) to celebrate trees in poetry, particularly those of Edward Thomas. Jeremy Mitchell and his wife Deirdre, of the Edward Thomas Fellowship in Petersfield, kindly agreed to join us at the Poet Stone. The idea was that we would sit beside the stone, enjoy a picnic and both listen to and share favourite poems about trees.
Trees and woods have long been a muse for poets, standing quietly in the landscape, yet speaking volumes to those who pause to notice. They hold a kind of sentient presence: rooted in place, yet alive with meaning.
Trees also offer beauty and solace. They’re steady companions on our journeys and quiet markers of the seasons. In times of change or stillness, they remain, grounding us and gently reminding us of life’s rhythms.
Trees feature prominently in Thomas’ poems. This is partly because he suffered great melancholy about direction and purpose. He was caught between conflicting feelings of wanting to travel and stay close to his family. Trees, firmly rooted in the ground, represented his desire to stay put, while birds and paths represented his longing to travel.
One walker, Julie, surprised us all by standing at the stone to read a poem – Striders of the Western Weald – that she had composed herself. This was not only about trees but also her recent walking experiences with Rural Strides. To say I was taken aback would be an understatement. Who needs Google Reviews when walkers write you poems! I hope you enjoy her poem as much as I did.
In dappled light through branches green,
A group sets forth, both kind and keen,
Their leader Malinka, the woodland Queen.
She strides with boots and heart so bold,
A tale in every step retold.
Through bramble path and foxglove glade,
Where shadows dance and sunlight played.
She teaches us of Oak and Ash,
Of Sliver Birch and Maple Brash.
We walk for joy, for breath, for cheer,
With laughter ringing crisp and clear.
Beneath the boughs of beech and lime,
We talk of trees, of rain, of time.
The Western Weald our stomping ground,
Where roots and stories all are found.
One day we wander further still,
To Prickly Nut Wood, a quiet hill.
To find a guide both gentle and good,
Ben – the man who lives in the wood,
He welcomed us with eyes aglow,
And taught us things we’d never know.
With hands both wise and worn,
He shapes his world from twig and thorn.
Then butterflies with wings so wide,
They dance like whispers brushed with pride.
Painted Ladies, Brimstones bright,
Red Admirals in sudden flight,
Speckled Woods and Blues in pairs,
They dance round us like woodland players.
Wings like petals in the breeze,
A fleeting dance beneath the trees.
With notepads out and grins a gape,
We watched each flutter, flash and shape.
And in the golden leafy scene,
All felt the hush of something green.
Then back we go with aching knees,
Yet full of tales and memories.
And when the day is almost done,
There waits a surprise for everyone.
Zz’s cake, a welcome treat,
A sweet reward for aching feet.
Together walking step by step,
Through glad and glen, through sun and wet.
Bound by laughter, trees and cake,
New paths to find, old paths to take.
A slice of cake, a cup of tea,
Content beneath a Hawthorn tree.
So, here’s to those that seek the trail,
Through ferny paths, and mossy vale.
To Malinka, our guide, our friend.
We raise our glass, thank you the end!