One could do worse than to be a swinger of birches

I think as we consider ourselves to progress

we rather lay them down by the side of the road

for in nature’s realm live countless ills, so we are told

Though by a loving mother were raised

we depart her home to travel roads we paved

For in no mother’s house may we find joy

and her delicate order is but a ploy;

ultimately, she who birthed us with love

is the cruel conformist against whom we must ourselves prove

Oh to conform!

As a child I wandered through countless woods

my true father accompanying me as he would

through his true son in knew the paths

by labour long he taught me how the trees could last

how bubbling streams and brooks could flow alongside country meadows

and rest could be found under sagacious trees’ shadows;

those who had known the earth before I was born.

Animals feared me not as a lad

I think they saw innocence in my curious eyes

no fear in their observant hearts needed to be held!

But of my own fault I lost sight of my true father and followed one who told me lies.

Dark clouds gathered that day as I let go of my loving father’s hand

and on that day my mother cried for grief

now all the world is to me as lifeless, barren sand

and tall skeletal trees once proud bear not a single leaf.