Sherif Ranger River Lea

The Forestry Commission doesn't rhyme


As we tiptoe the proscenium arches,
balance barefoot on the tip of a click 
of spur, contemplate the beautiful curves 
of water, she hunts processionary caterpillar 
marching collective hopes up the laden oaks,
binoculars a skyward starling, ever forward, 
upward, close; no hope of saving the world, 
the nests spreading through scrubland 
to playgrounds, overhanging basket-burns 
for children marked by GPS; a spray-can 
grafitti tin rattles in the woods, the clack
of ribcage ball-bearing hearts 
in the heartwood, and a shotgun scarring 
between the old trees, a jaguar, the deer 
and she scoring the bark, red or blue.


for Lea