Ode to the Forest

You silent sentinels of the past
What leafy stories can you sprout
That even fair Egypt
Is ashamed to have boasted about

What scars are those on your trunk?
Of battles fought
Of lovers’ frolics
How often have men sought your comfort?
Wasn’t it Buddha not so long ago?

Ah, on your thin boughs
How many birds have sought your shelter?
Even the tiny cicada is glued
Confidently on your trunk
And the birds use your
Thoroughfares without fear

But I stand there
My mind fraught with worries
Seeking for some order
And peace – your peace
But alas

Though you are stricken to the ground
Never to move
I know that the sound which
Rustles in the wind is happy
That it’s not man made

Previously published in The Victorian, 1968