The Caretaker

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    Pat Brady asked me to keep an eye,

    and keep an eye I do,

    On trees and leaves, twigs and paths,

    streams and anything new.

    I walk on green and brown and gold,

    a carpet of fallen life,

    from oak and beech and sycamore,

    from willow and his wife.

    From boughs and branches, forks and stems,

    and limbs of lichen; yellow,

    We fill the fabric of forest life

    from wild, to calm and mellow.

    Stags and does and fawns

    abound, pine martin and kingfisher,

    The sultry mink, the bushy fox,

    for every well, a wisher.

    Sometimes I meet the evangelist,

    not Matthew, Mark or John,

    Tall as a tree, and straight as a rod,

    a Déise man and strong.

    Newcastle forest is in good hands,

    Sitka sheen and holly gloss,

    Every time our Saviour dies,

    pine or cedar is His cross.

    Germination of seeds and nuts

    bring us from winter to spring,

    Sprigs and buds and tiny sprouts

    start it all over again.

    They give us life, the air we breathe,

    Timber and fire and fruit,

    Here before us, here when we’re gone,

    Every mighty oak, every tiny shoot.