Index of poems

Forests in Provence

by Evelyn Westwood (Evelyn Watts)

Along the nearer mountain tops
Grey granite cliffs are stretched like frills,
But at their feet the forest stops
And spreads its wide cloak down the hills.

Under its canopy of green
In sheltered aisles, straight-limbed and tall,
The pines stand quiet and in between
Their russet trunks the sunshafts fall.

And freely there the sphagnum throws
Its lacy shawl along the dells
And here there climbs a wild pink rose
And there a foxglove stirs its bells.

Now little groups of mushrooms stand
Together, as it were in chat,
A sober, well-groomed little band,
And each one wears a shady hat.

Forests are home to boar and hare,
To badger, fox, abandoned cat,
Squirrels and rabbits - all must share
This frail and precious habitat.

Birds build their nests here, deep among
The foliage hidden, out of sight
Of predators, bring up their young
Until they too are skilled in flight.

When they are listless or weary,
Upset or sad, then humans too
Should sit a while against a tree
And let its healing peace renew.