My heart seeks the solace
of an oak wood.
Essex with its lands of history
Life held in the hands of her trees,
Calls to me from my deepest veins.
Why is here not good enough?
It is empty, cold and grey
The trees have little to say,
And I will not be of it.
Stubbornly as an ancient oak,
I will not be uprooted, or cut down
And so I would not be moved,
One way or another.
Leave me to love in my oak wood,
And take away if you must only my acorns.
I long for you, oh forests of Epping.