‘Were fields green as emeralds, or trees tall as mountains?
In our Forest are land-men, and the singers of the realms.
Were there people in folds, were there crystal fountains?
In our Forest are wild-men, whose tales are old as elms.
Is there roaring of waves, or wisping of the waters?
In our Forest are the brooks who babble and who trickle.
Are there sheep in hays, are they ill that falters?
In our Forest are wild-rooks, Colours all are fickle.
There are trees tall like mountains, there’s hay keeping colds.
In our Forest are cups and bells; the whites and buds of May.
There are crystal water fountains, there are fields green emeralds,
In our Forest are the fells, The Forest of Dean this day.’ – Kester Rose