‘If a tree falls in a forest and no-one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?’.
By way of George Berkeley [1685 to 1753]
The tide of trees is in, up against the glass,
Silence but for the drip of rain on stone
As I wait here indoors for it to pass,
Floating in the forest, we are alone.
I am the gatepost, fern filled and mossed
Paddling in grasses and rosebay willow herb,
Empty, my old gates fallen and long lost,
But which no storm can harm or disturb.
Or I am the stove, where the light is green,
Swimming in the shallows of leaf and tree,
Witness to something only I have seen,
And I rework Berkeley’s old philosophy.
Are we in a an aquarium looking out,
Or outside looking in; besieged by doubt.