Mr Forester

I suppose this really should be called 'A Hymn to Cernunnos'.
I am in the silence of
The hunting cat's footfall;
I am in the echo of
An owl's haunting call.
I am in the storm blown wind
That tears among the trees;
I am in the fall hued leaves
Discarded by the breeze.
I am in the air that lifts
The raven's gliding flight;
I am in the purpose of
The pack hunting by night.
I am in the coney's start
That presages its bolt;
I am in the form and lair,
The den and hive and holt.

Mine are the ettin fells
That mock mere human scale;
Mine is the glorious view
Of lush and fertile vale;
Mine are the forest glades
That shade the grazing deer;
Mine, the detritus of earth
That makes the dam and weir.
Mine, the coast escarpments that,
Decaying, destroy homes;
Mine, the weeds and bramble
That reclaim old aerodromes.
Mine, the lands that farmers work
To clear and grow a crop;
Mine, the things that give them grief
And makes their task non-stop.

©Alexa Duir 2005

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