I went to Sherwood Forest,
in search of Robin Hood.
I imagined he was watching me
as I wandered through the wood.
Then came a flight of arrows
and I heard the Sheriff’s men;
the ring of swords and battle
resounded through the glen.
But how I was mistaken,
only ghosts are here to thrill,
for Robin Hood’s a memory —
a legend living still.
A very English forest. Photo by Ginette Pestana
Silent as a mosquito whine just beyond hearing.
A lizard lies languid, tastes the air with its thick blue tongue.
A goanna runs up a gum tree, claws digging into bark.
A scrub turkey dashes across the path.
I sit on the timber seat halfway up the mountain,
careful of the red-back’s nest underneath.
Leaves dance with the first drops of rain. Birds call out.
A tree dribbles sap, sticky as honey. The downpour starts-
I am drenched in the forest’s earthy scent.
Anna Jacobson
Australian Children’s Poetry 