The forest is where our imagination laid,
peering out beneath the leaves,
waiting for us to join it.
For once we smelt the dampness
and felt the moss between our toes,
our entire world transformed
into a place of majesty.
The glare of the sun turned an oak tree
into a malevolent tower
in which we played damsels in distress
wearing tiaras of fern.
A shimmer in the water
turned a lazy stream
into rushing rapids
in which we were curious conquistadors
discovering new land.
For years we trapezed through those branches,
skipping and slipping in the mud.
Until the glare of the sun
turned into the glare on a window.
Still damsels in distress,
but no suitors came to save us
and there was no more land to be conquered.