An Ode to the Forest of Dean
In a verdant, quiet little backwater of the west country sits the Forest of Dean.
No longer Royal, this little enclave of regimented coniferous forests and ancient deciduous woodland has been my home, spiritually but not physically, for my whole life.
Its stunning vistas, awe-inspiring sunsets and magical historical sites make visitors wax lyrically about its beauty. But it is flawed.
Cut off from the rest of the country on roads that lead nowhere it is peopled by a simple, xenophobic and often ignorant community who don’t appreciate what they have.
I only have to spend a short time away for my heart to yearn the greenery of the forests that encase and protect each town, village and hamlet.
I only have to spend a short time back in the forest to see the stark reality of its shortcomings.
But it is my home.
Ode to the Forest
The bosom of green I was born unto:
an army of mums, your setting suns
of golds that glimmer, of dazzling hues
soothe the soul, remove the pain,
the stress that clings from a life’s duress.
Days and time bend, soul and spirit mends by being close to you
like warmth from embers.
We bask in your glow, remember lost memories
as summer’s sun peeps between trees then goes,
seeds burst from pods and new life scatters like shards of ice.
Then you turn, you twist, as Winter’s grip
Tightens, and light drips, like blood from a wound
And darkness descends, a blanket of black
Until soon spring bounces back and
You rise and breathe again,
Like the moon.
