Tag: Wicklow

Our new pine forests,
not what we once had, they’re gone ~
But our own, now best.

When we were youngsters,
You could get no better day,
Than one in the pines.

Their permafresh smell,
Their hidden depths ~ dark green womb,
The wind, filtered sounds.

It’s a sterile world,
The adults tell us, knowing
nothing of our blood.

And in an emerald clearing
There is a particular light;
A hind, silent and still,
Stares back at you ~
And you know you are at home.