Hunt the herald cry of catkin,
New life in fields and mountains shout,
Of fawns, kids and flowers dancing.
Springtime revelry is held without,
That ancient forest of unchange,
The Child's kin in trees estranged.
Leafy fingers scratch the wind,
To smell the world outside his reach,
To hear of men and creatures finned,
Told in tongues that bear no speech.
Words in Chaos, elemental, raw,
First written with scale, whisker and claw.
Never the sun gilds so gold,
The first of man's Florimpha days.
But should the youngling be so bold,
To step into the Child's maze,
What is found one cannot say,
Bounty or bane for those who stray.
Curious feet pair untrodden leaves,
Seeking the Child and sight of his thralls.
Through brambles and bowers Divues reeves,
Mottling the backs of rotten windfalls,
Sweet in decay as much as in life.
Innocent eyes wish for hooves of the lithe,
To rise the swell and glimpse the white,
To find the water that flows on sweet,
Can only be if the Child smiles bright.
If his kin growl with contempt and conceit,
Young eyes will fall on naught but ill,
For all of this forest share his will.