(In Epping Forest
the bodies of mutilated girls
lie hidden
deep within the loam.)
In the high summer
Epping Forest
is airless,
barely cooler
than the heat outside.
The trees provide scant shelter
from the brutal sunshine.
Beeches
stand all and bright,
and below them,
in the shadows,
last year's dead leaves
cover the floor.
Fallen branches
form obstacles.
There are no footpaths
through Epping Forest.
Young elms grow
beneath the indifferent beech trees.
Striving for the light,
diseased and dying,
attacked from within,
mutilated by beetles,
but - astonishingly -
even now,
there are elms
alive
in Epping Forest.
14th August 2003
All poems copyright © Beth Cargill, 2002 and 2003. All rights reserved.
If you wish to contact the author please email: [email protected]
Quails' eggs and other cock-ups