The Horrible Forest
There is a forest I do not like
You may not like it either
A forest far larger than any other.
No trick of words or meaning is employed here
It’s a real forest made of real trees
It has more trees than any other single forest.
A forest that stretches beyond every horizon
Vast is its cloak, prolific in the extreme
A forest unplanned, uncultivated, growing unchecked.
Its trees steal the light from millions of homes
A leafy screen across every cherished belvedere
Yet no one seems to lift a hand or care a jot.
A forest of little beauty, just a scrubby dark tangle
A barrier to all mankind, a fence to all free spirits
Of thorns, barbed branches and razor coarse bark.
A forest so large you cannot escape it
A forest that harbours all kinds of life and secret ills
Spreadings insidiously ignoring all boundaries.
You may think it only a wood, the bit you see
Yet its sylvan mantle never ends, reaching everywhere
Wearying a million miles for passer byes.
No majestic forest this with noble trees
Just scrub and brush and wilded birch
A forest un-named, unloved, untamed.
A dingy grey green hedge that creeps beside
Every river, road and railway in the land
Creating a uniform dull monotonous corridor.
For the jaded traveller to gaze upon.