What is ancient about the forest

Lichens stamp their mark and give the air such purity
Creating such emotion out of true longevity
In passages below the ground webs of fungal fruit
VAliant corms sprout everywhere in readiness to root
Great fronds of moss and air plants hanging as they do
Rich yet very sensitive magickal all through
So much beauty in the mystery of ancientness whose grace
Evolves to draw each challenge at a less demanding pace
A panoramic vision encapsulated by a window dressed by nature
With its backdrop of the sky

In whose footsteps do we venture as our lungs are forced to share
The truly peaceful outcome of really being there
Submerged in all that softness mellowed by the true
Influence of nature that obviously does woo
The wildness of creation and its relation to the whole
Winter is upon us in our age old stroll
The whiteness as the pheonix emerges from the snow
Its wings encased in the coldest frost that anyone does know

The trees each vast encounter root systems in the air
Their vigour and their fervour can be felt now everywhere
Blooming bouncing healthy progressive throughout time
A dormancy and a rousing of the great encircling vine
Its time that has the whip hand inspiring every flow
Momentous and decisive as slowly it doth grow
Into a gorgeous kingdom of fable and of prose
With diadems of sparkling frosts that so redden our nose

And space its all wide ranging a tangle of desire
Nature the great sculptor draws rings growing higher
The canopy is dense with life with greenery galore
All covered in an ermine coat of lichens from before
Man could fly above it all,before all that when he
Could just about crawl on all fours and definately not see
The wonders that were growing before all that we stand
On soil that the great reptiles sank their feet in
That same land

Drapes and droops are everywhere
Trailing strings of green
Of purple and of rainbow colours
Tendrils from the bean
Spiders webs great masking traps
Littered with the souls
Who fell into the cauldron and took on different roles
The symmetry of winter whose brush strokes dust the trees
Thistles and thorns are everywhere protecting while they please
Everywhere unusual forms gape and yawn away
Poetry in motion on a rather icy day