Child of ngahere

 The old fellow wasn´t in any of the four forests
and even the children who came after and before me
never worshipped the forest the way that I did
each one, the pine, the eucalypt and the native mountain forest
Not even the river forest.

The fat long grass sweeping the trunks of the eucalypts
The grey red needles of the pine forest floor
The mossy bruised rocks creating the echo under the native bush
They are the child, the potential for feeling

The broken sky wounded by the southerlies
Not hugging both islands the way romanticized
Hovering over the canopies still smiling despite it´s injuries
It talks to those forests and witnesses the child
wayward lost in those woods

The clearing allows the panicked heart to palpitate 
after the forest shade fosters the doubts of real life
Never hiding the truth and brutally brewing it up
and serving it like a demonic tea
The clearing speaks

It shouts the sky into your face
dew still humidifying the low grass
Inviting the child in the form of fungus
The eyes are pushed back into the light
The nose brought under the fury of pungent bracken

Oh to be lost here, not found by the badly programmed humans
who reach for order at the expence of spontaneity
who sacrifice adventure for structures in time and expectation
Their definition of the world covering their piece of the carpet

The forest a profanity
A million middle fingers
that the ambitious gut wants into timber
or pasture
The coal fart of adulthood