Pine standing in rows, like warriors lances

Cathedrals of beech trees, arching their branches,

A carpet of grass, so lush and so green

I'm sorry I left you, my Forest of Dean.

The bleating of sheep, the tumbling of streams

Are sounds that still haunt the deepest of dreams,

I drank it all in, with sense so keen

When I was young, in my Forest of Dean.

The song of a chaffinch, the smell of wood smoke

The bluebells that spread, between towers of old oak

Of all the places that I've ever been

Nothing compares with my Forest of Dean.

The hills and the valleys of my native land

All bear the scars of my forefather's hand

And the older I get the farther I lean

Back to the past, in my Forest of Dean.

Silent scowl holes, those iron-age caves

Wind tossed fern banks, rolling like waves

These secret places that rarely are seen

Await me unchanged in my Forest of Dean.

I picture the ponds, where the heron still wades

The splendour of autumn, its hues and its shades

If I could return, how much it would mean

Just to see you again, my Forest of Dean.

But maybe I'll die, before another day dawns

And never again see the deer with their fawns

If so, take me back, where the air is still clean

And lay me to rest in my Forest of Dean.

R. Miles.