The Forest, Never To Return
March came in like a lion
And never let up, not really
The children, Markie and Stu, spent most of their day outside
Except, usually, for a quick lunch and a hurried hug
In the country, the darkness is like a blanket
It covers our house and even our lives
Like some foreboding cloud, or dark and terrifying storm
Ready to swallow us whole, and move on, slowly, to the next farm
The children seem to relish the large, empty fields
And thick, virgin forest that lies just beyond a small, dilapidated fence
Which surrounds our property, and is otherwise... antiquated
Or quaint at best
Judging by the children, our move has been a great success
Reggie and I, however, are surprised by the lack of sunshine...
And lack of warmth
From the locals
Sometimes, when the wind howls at night
The darkness itself comes alive
The children feel it too, but don't seem to mind
Not like Reggie, my husband, and myself
Our world extends to the nearby forest
Where the children have created . . .
A perfect world for themselves --
--seemingly
Sometimes, when everyone is comfortably in bed
And sleeping well, and peacefully so
A loud rapping sound can be heard,
Terrifying, to say the least
We seem to be a frequent stop for strangers
Many of them lost, looking for direction
Some friendly, some not so much
But wanting, desperately, to quickly move on . . .
By the way, my name is Jean, Jean Decker
And this is my story... if you can take it
As I said, my husband Reggie, and children Markie and Stu
Purchased an old country home, located on 16 private acres
Ever since we arrived, the surrounding countryside
Much like we imagined, is green, and gorgeous in every respect
Most of the property consists of large fields in every direction
Which eventually fade into a small forest
It is there that the kids are most likely to be found
Cutting through the fresh, surrounding pasture grass
And disappearing, slowly but surely, into the trees
A most extraordinary personal playground
Lately, I've noticed in the children
A certain aloofness
Like a candle, once burning, now wanting
But clamoring for more
When the children come home, in the twilight hour
They return, later than ever
Exhausted, irritable, tight lipped
Ready for bed, and an early morning start
The darkness falls, like a deep, mysterious hand
Smothering our home, and crushing us in its grip
Suffocating us
And sometimes, just after midnight...
... To be continued
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