|
There are whispers in the woods,
whispers in the woods that,
that the new government
has a new law signed, that says
that the old forest, every tuft of grass,
every queen in every honeycomb, in the forest that has seen
governments change like seasons, is theirs.
They put a board saying that much, but the tiger can’t read,
The trees can’t see and the hunter doesn’t care.
The old hunter whose father has been a hunter,
and his father before him, says it is his.
He has been coming here, sunshine or rain.
The tiger says it’s his, always been, he was born here,
like the tiger he killed in a fight, for this forest,
and almost met death himself,
waltzed with him, time and time again.
The trees say, it is theirs, for now, among themselves.
The buried dead believe it is only fair, that it is theirs.
They claim. The travelers that have etched marks into trees,
to guide the path for other travelers, trespass and leave,
like the water of the river that sings in chorus with the whiplashed wind.
The wind-plucked leaves rustle and crumble like potato chips
as the crying birds call out to other crying birds
that gather to investigate the death of a chick.
The rocks bathing in the river drown a little more
as boats with fancy names meander with the river,
taking logs and fish and mushrooms and rare herbs.
These things now that they are leaving, can no longer say,
that this forest is theirs.
The caterpillars that now,
see their colourful wing capes reflect in the river,
are still surprised. The falling petals on wild plants,
the only other splash of colour. The frog croaks,
a crocodile answers and the tiger sleeps as
revolution blooms like spring flowers, against the government,
and climbers encircle the foot of the board below,
rust sticks at its ears and leaves cover the board like eyelids,
and all that can be conquered, is. |
