I heard the birded forest sing a song;
a song of such compelling melancholy
that all the forest dwellers sang along
and sang of human wrongs and human folly.
At first a hum, a murmur, then a stream
that slowly flowed but soon began to surge;
a seething scream, a torrent of a dream,
in which the whirling words became a dirge.
If I could say I heard a single voice
of hope above the clamour and the din
and find therein a reason to rejoice
I’d shout it out, but all was closing in.
The fury of the forest overspilt,
and I’m to blame, I shrink in shame and guilt.
© 2023 Glen Scott