Let’s take a journey back to Shakespeare’s day,
When verdant forest coated England’s heart.
With Oak and Ash and Birch, and flowering May,
A place of mystery and Fairy Art.
Beside a path of Stitchwort and sweet Thyme,
A handsome youth is by his cattle led.
There, hidden from view by thorny Eglantine,
The Fairy Queen sleeps on a Primrose bed.
A Willow grows aslant a glassy stream,
Where sweet Ophelia finally laid her head.
Alas, that forest now is but a dream,
That wild and wonderland is almost dead.
Man’s lust for power, money, need to own,
Has changed that place, to tarmac, brick and stone.