Forest

We chop and maul, we reap and crop
where life is cheap, but may we stop
and think again in forests few,
of crunching leaves and falling dew?
And may we walk so we can hear
sounds lost to us if we should clear
those placid guardians of the wild
we take for granted? Once exiled,
by loud machines that cut through wood,
our ancient souls are gone for good.

Published by

Julia Dean-Richards

Julia is a writer and performer living in the Shropshire hills. Her writing is a product and expression of the love she has found whilst journeying through the most difficult times of her life.

please feel free to comment on these poems - all feedback appreciated. :)

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