The Wrong Forest
Mean aluminium trees –
plastic vines
circulating analgesic sap –
fail to sway in the bare
thoracic snap from tired,
syncopating lungs.
Phoney canopy
on geometric bough.
Silent, motionless
except under instruction
from triclosan shielded
hands, lost in the wrong
forest, avoiding
the gaze of sanguine
eyes, their data leaves
gathered, sussurating,
mumbling unwelcome truths.
Quailing from the regular chirp
of digital birds, more threatening
as their excitement mounts,
deafened but fearing their absence
from the next dawn chorus.
Note: Written as catharsis and in memory of my friend Pete who died in 1989 from HIV. The last conversation we had was about how much he wanted to be able to walk through a forest again. He knew it wasn’t going to happen and as he drifted way, the juxtaposition of his wishes and the harsh metal and plastic landscape he was in seemed ironic, tragic and cruel. Still miss the mad old fucker.
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Will Vigar 
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