Forest of Dean

The ghosts of this Royal forest,

Hide in these trees,

On twisted branches,

In hollowed out trunks,

Poachers and miners,

Yesterday’s men,

Poets and artists,

Flourish and fall,

Ink stains of mystics,

Fade in fast running brooks,

Cloaked by the morning mist.

The veins of wintered trees,

Cling on to remnants of golden brown tear drops,

Falling across miles of forest tracks,

Pockmarked by ditches and industry scars,

Bookmarked by sculptures ,

And stained glass forests.

We are waiting for the waking of spring,

And as time trips by the forest fills,

With walkers and runners and cyclists,

Families and dogs,

To breathe in this magical air,

With the backing of bird song,

And water flowing through underground stream,

The clap of wood pigeon wing,

And the call from a lone crow,

While the boar and the deer stay distant,

Til we pack up and go home,

And the stars come alive,

On this Forest of Dean.