Where The Forest Meets The Meadow… Poem by Mark Heathcote

In a forest of bracken, with dead-crushed-skulls.
Fern fronds black crow's toadstools and horror
there are armies of creatures hidden from sight
only shows-their teeth in the midst-of-moonlight
gaunt expressions spy out beneath this dark flora
with fixed stares, a mingling of moist-mixed-bloods.

Here in this forest, every noise threatens death,
but on the flip side, it's an ark of survival
a place of imminent danger or protracted life
lived out on the edge of a field that magnifies
a spring meadow where the sun levels its rifle,
it-takes-aim at another's - enigmatic bequests.