Beauty Blind






(Prose, based on my perceptions of Wynyard Woodland Park situated close to my home, which, after I was diagnosed with cancer, took on new meaning to such an extent, that I was driven as never before to commit these words to paper in order that others might appreciate that which they currently take for granted.)




As I stroll along well trodden paths, amidst an oasis so close to urban distractions, I feel my mind wandering among thoughts of tranquil colourful verse, that I see and hear in my mind, and which, once passed, do not return, but change and weave in ever more intricate variety, following the mood of seasons and scenery which enchant me.


I smell lush vegetation, damp with morning dew, and May blossom abundant with itís heady scent, which above all else, tells me spring is here.

Birds sing wonderful trilling songs, more vigorous and joyous than in the preceding months, as they dance in the undergrowth by my side.

Beams of sunlight dapple onto my skin through the canopy of trees, heavy with new grown leaves, all shapes and shades of green.

I feel the warmth of the sun seeping into my body, creating feelings of comfort and contentment.


Despite roaming these sylvan paths so frequently, I still succumb to the essence of this haven with its air of serenity, and appreciate the beauty around me.

Even when seasons change, I still sense that beauty, still feel the tranquillity, still enjoy the heat of a burning summer sun or the sound of autumn rain as it makes music on  leaves now brittle with age.

I still enjoy the gentle whispers of winds floating through the woodland trees, and the brightness of snow in winter, as it crunches underfoot, creating virgin footprints for others to follow.


From verdant springs, through colourful summers, golden autumns and crisp white winters, I feel Iím in a different paradise at each transition, as seasons roll along, creating a forever changing landscape, and yet, there are those who fail to see this beauty, and cannot, will not, appreciate that which is so close, so precious and so free.

I feel for them in their isolation, so busy are they with their humdrum daily routines, which make them, beauty blind.

I pity them for their loss of something so tangible, yet it escapes their senses, fails to make its mark upon them, and leaves them poorer for its absence in their lives, lives which are so fickle and uncertain.


For all that I appreciate this sanctuary, I dared not believe it could appear still more beautiful.

Yet I am human, and have become aware of my mortality, and with this revelation, comes an appreciation beyond that, which I already thought had reached its pinnacle, so vivid are my feelings in this place now.

I feel so graced, to perceive this spectacle with such heightened senses, that I could weep with a joy denied to those whose mortality is of no concern to them, who take for granted the subtleties around them, and who are truly, beauty blind.



by Graham A Newman.



Return to "Poetic Licence"