The speaker is walking through a forest hollow, noticing things as they appear: three old charcoal haul roads splitting off, a crossroads buried in moss, fungi stacked like rungs up a dead tree. The short, spaced-out lines work like footsteps, with the reader pausing as the walker pauses to look.
Two odd statements break into the scene. "Namaste means I bow to the divine in you" feels like a thought surfacing mid-walk, and it suggests the speaker treats the woods with a kind of reverence. Then, beside a lightning-struck oak, comes the claim that lightning does strike twice. The poem seems to be saying that damage and survival can both be seen in the same tree, and that the old oak's splintered "spears of heartwood" still look strong.
The mood is quiet, attentive, and a little awed. Nothing dramatic happens, but the forest feels old, layered with human work and natural power, and worth bowing to.