This forest is growing faster than it should,
It’s shedding from it’s skin of fractured wood,
Hiding something deep inside which harbours evil blood.
The leaves are joining like a roof far above,
As though the ancient trees and sun were joined in love,
As if closer to be closer to Heaven, the will of the dove.
These shadows dance with the passage of time,
Slithering about the floor in a sinister rhyme,
Coating all the things of the copse in a shade sublime.