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Array
(
[sid] => 176650
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => The forest
[time] => 2013-08-04 13:41:09
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => The low lying sycamore, Half smiling against the autumnal sunshine, The foxglove set amongst this symposium of colour, A warning of the dangers that lie within. The soft breeze, Like the dying words of a long lost lover, Repeating this mantra of inexhaustible resistant to the closing of another year. The tangled branches and the evil roots pulled up in their prime Twisting and turning; barring the way forward , The hawthorn with a contemptuous frown sends birds diving for cover, Don't look, Don't stare, for the walls of nature have many ears and many eyes. The warmth refuses to penetrate here, It's a windy, noiseless place; A craggy outcrop of humanity; A dense almost evil reminder of the forbidding fear that blights our every step. Soon the rains will come and drench this god forsaken land Then the snow will carpet the ground and all will seem pure, All will seem perfect, Except for the mumbling of trees The linden, The elm, The oak, Shed of their clothing, Naked, freezing, shivering against the backdrop of utter helplessness of desire for new unconquered terrain. They eye the towns and the cities with delight, They long to take back what is rightfully theirs. The devil walks on soft toes Fleet of foot and slight of hand, No-one will notice until it is too late, Until it has won, Until we are bereft of light, bereft of air, Bereft of life We are strangers here, [comments] => 1 [counter] => 123 [topic] => 27 [informant] => Urizen [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => NaturePoetry )
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