A photograph of the river near Malyan Spout, Goathland, Yorkshire

The Forest My Father

The Forest is my father,
All bark and antler and vines.
Eyebrows of Moss, Dew ponds for eyes.
With Clematis beard and the voices of birds.
He provides food from the seed and the herd.

The Earth my mother,
With green bosom and brown,
As the seasons pass, she takes off her gown.
In some places her robe is threadbare,
Her white bones of chalk, exposed to the air.

The sun is my friend,
The moon is my guide,
The rain is my shower,
The cave where I hide.
My bedroom the branches,
My office the grove,
My fan is the wind.
My ringtone, the Dove.

The stag is my brother,
My sister, the bear,
And the fish in the rivers, the birds in the air.
Our road is the deer track,
Our shops are the trees,
Our newspapers printed on the wild morning breeze.

Those buildings of concrete,
Those loud city streets,
With air made of poison,
All lies and deceit.
That’s no place for humans,
Come, walk with me,
Come home to the forest, our father, be free.

© Herne Wyldwood 2013