In the Forest of Lost Fortune cries
The one eyed owl of the reddened moon;
Sheltering under starry skies
Each night he hoots a banished tune.
Come thither his nocturnal fleet,
Trees uproot like a marching band;
Branches shake to his cosmic beat
Resounding deep throughout the land.
Under the twilight leaves change hue,
Flickering like a newborn flame;
Flaxen, violet, green and blue,
And many colours none can name.
Wavering fields of golden corn
Swirl to the rhythm in a trance;
Twirling round with a leaping fawn,
Breaking off in a scattered dance.
Dusk has been an orbiting friend,
Dawn returns like a wicked foe;
Down into soil the trees descend,
From seismic tides back down below.
Their time of roaming nearly spent,
Hours slide into minute frames;
The Guardians wail a long lament,
Anon sans cesse such fleeting flames.
Bluebells blossom, soft lays the dew,
Clouds break through with a parting glance;
Alas, if only someone knew
How nature guards the dead romance.
Two humans, like nomadic Huns,
Went hunting on a morning prowl;
Both wandered off with loaded guns,
On target for a flighty fowl.
© 2017 AGP