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Poem

A great forest grows dark and green,
Where little birds twitter amid the leaves,
Reynard the red coated one  keen eye searching,
For squirrels leaping among branches tall,
Making sure the youngsters don’t fall,
A capercaillie scream rents the air,
Sounding like ban-sidhe in the air.
Trees creak and rattle in ancient tree talk,
Close together they whisper and plot,
Sending astray the unwary and proud,
Those who stravaig far from the path.
Deep in the depths a slow rising hill,
Crowned with a wall of log and thorn,
With a ditch to deter those who do ill,
A gate stands with warriors each side,
Armed with sword,shield and dirks sharp and slim,
Protecting those who dwell within.
Built long before by the ancestors long gone,
Their spirit lingering in every log,
Singing their song of “Torr na Craoibhe”, as it was once named,
In the tongue of ancients forever told.
Their song drifts over the trees,
Heard by creatures large and small,
For those who stop to listen and hear,
The wisdom within to teach and preserve,
The old ways of nature and ancient forest,
Helping all to live in joyous unity,
Listen and hear what they say.

© Andrew Provan McIntyre   28.4.2016.

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