Forest
This forest is my wilderness,
Beneath a Hunters' Moon.
The wild wolf's howl
Is one long vowel
In the silver-shadowed gloom.
Now Winter's death is in the air,
And every time I breathe,
My spirit sighs
For open skies
As it takes its chance to leave.
The trees are twisted murderers,
Their fingers grasp the sun,
But through their grip
He's fain to slip,
And he is forever gone.
Their victims lie about my feet,
A thousand blood-stained knives;
Supple vigour
Turned to rigour,
But a rustle for their cries.
This forest is my wilderness,
I'll walk it to its end,
With just my stride
To be my guide,
And my footfalls for a friend.