SOUL OF A FOREST

there is a green light in the forest

that grows in the shafted sun

a timeless green, more green than

the greenest grass,

in a wood where the brown lean shapes

mingle with the dead leaves,

to reshuffle time and see

the living under the cold fairy hands;

somewhere, beyond the trees

there is a broken light,

dapple-cut, stranded ribbonlike

in glades,

cut chunky split deep green

and yellow in the fastnesses.

more tangible than a tree,

a soup-thick warmth

with all the sounds of youth

clamouring on the wind;

the sweet smell of cut grass,

the musk of adolescence

mingling with the clutching bluebell smoke . .

and in the morning the clean icy smell

of an axe

which the azure farmer

sharpens and resharpens.

with one quick stroke the timelessness is gone,

and away into the soaring gloom

streams a green robe,

the mantle of such a forest

rising up in protest

at the hollow ring of the arc

of the swing of a rainbow

flashing in the half green trees.

of a little ritual.

as the tree falls

a wretchedness in weed black like coal

covers over the executed forest,

and the wind showers birds like leaves

that cry, to mourn the hollow branches.

and the green soul lingers among the verdure,

just long enough for the woodchopper

to feel a nausea

as he breathes the sour thick odour

of nature’s death.

then a cloud lifts,

but through the mist a thousand peepholes scatter,

shed pouring shafts of green-gold sun

while the farmer’s axe pays penance

in acknowledgement,

reflecting the treasure of light

along the forest rides,

through the cur-clinging weeds

like a scythe slicing corn . .

grows again

a furry little forest,

bubbling and frothy,

yet rippling under the inch high branches,

the same space voices,

the cries of a new realm.

and revelling in a vast understanding,

the farmer watches his axe

dissolve in the clear green sparkle.