Description
‘The forest lain out beneath the iron sky of winter
Is stiffened in frost
Frozen in fog
The mists as chill as death wandering to the impulse of our south-west
winds
The river itself is a torrent
Tearing asunder the wood of skeletons and
Sending a raving sound of thunder through the air
Our forest now,
The cradle of fog-bred pestilence
Breathing contagion into its crowded recesses
How I long for blue skies, placid sunshine and soft western gale filled days
Our forest to shake loose its tresses and
Our Oak skeletons to be restored to its once majestic life’
VaL Smit ©
Published: Literary Garland, September 2020
