Green moss adorned onlooker of the World,
Home to insects, animals, birds and snakes,
Lashed by rain, lightening scarred, while the sun bakes;
Stalwart sentinel, twisting branches, knurled,
Reaching to clouds on high with leaves unfurled,
Seasons run their course; sudden peace breaks
As man cuts down life for the wood he takes
Screeching saw, “Timber!” strip, chop, trim and hurled.
Fearsome visage masks gentle inner force,
Resolute guardian, woodland watcher stands,
Spirit strong among the trees’ earth bound roots;
The forest needs to stand free from man’s hands,
The cycle of life, a natural resource,
Relieve harm to Gaia as man pollutes.
(c) Robert Jones 2013, All Rights Reserved
I was inspired to write this poem when I saw what appeared to be a face, spine and pelvis in the mirrored image of moss growing on a tree trunk in Sydney Park.