Mr Forester

This is for a god I am very fond of, but who has (he tells me) many names. This is the one used in my books; others will use those familiar to them.

 

I am in the silence of the hunting cat’s footfall;
I am in the echo of an owl’s haunting call.
I am in the storm blown wind that tears among the trees;
I am in the fall hued leaves discarded by the breeze.
I am in the air that lifts the raven’s gliding flight;
I am in the purpose of the pack hunting by night.
I am in the coney’s start that presages its bolt;
I am in the form and lair, the den and hive and holt.

Mine are the ettin fells that mock the grandest human scale;
Mine is the glorious vista of the lush and fertile vale;
Mine are the forest glades that shade the dapple grazing deer;
Mine are the detritus of earth that makes the dam and weir.
Mine are the coast escarpments that, decaying, destroy homes;
Mine are the weeds and bramble that reclaim old aerodromes.
Mine are the lands that farmers work to clear and grow a crop;
Mine are the things that give them grief and makes their task non-stop.

© Alexa Duir 2005