The Ghosts of Coldfall Wood

There is a place in London.
A sanctuary in Muswell hill.

A place called Coldfall Wood.

When you enter the wood,
on well laid dog-walking paths.
You leave London and enter Narnia instead.

There are Victorian iron lamps
where Mr. Tumnus should await.
The sounds of the city just vanish as you walk
deeper into the wood.

You are in a different world.

So,
you walk deeper and further,
the laid paths disappear. 

You hear and see the accusing crows.
You see the broken toothed rows.

The ragged marker stones.

Suddenly, you know.
What, centuries ago 
Coldfall Wood once was.

I have looked at every one.
I have stroked them with a touch.

Not one still wears a name.

The ghosts of Coldfall Woods.