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.

Forest

Stepped from our travelling van, we
cast a blanket on the ground
beneath the spindled sessile branch.

Submerged in ferns, we watch play
lichened, long limbed nymphs,
aloft our chosen healing tree.

And as the early sun strokes
offered oak leaf palms,
stale poisons tapped, sap from us.

See how our grim forest buckles,
and melting into wilderness
we become our greater selves.