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