Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
There's the smell of grazing cattle
taste it heavy on the breeze.
There's the eerie croak and rattle
of frogs beneath the trees.
See the infant foxes gambol
in the creeping evening cool,
as weary from our ramble
we pause beside a pool.
Bluebells toll in silence,
the swallow soars and dips,
the water erupts in violence
as the pike attacks and rips.
The whiskered vole was wary,
but the dab chicks fallen prey,
her feathers drift light and airy
as Ratty scoots away.
At the turmoil in the water
the cattle bolt and race.
The foxes smell the slaughter
and we glimpse the hunters face.
Yet high above, the swallow,
all heedless of the pain,
Calls her mate to follow
to deftly glide and plane.
Soft days-end breezes whisper,
along the woodland eaves,
and we set our footsteps crisper,
beneath the singing leaves.
The sunset fire burns west away,
and purple storm clouds tower,
this awesome pyre of the day
hallows the homing hour.
YOU ARE READING
WOOD POETRY
PoetryA collection of poetry inspired by a life in an English wood. Meet the animals and birds. Experience the seasons. Enjoy the sunshine, the rain, the mist and the snow.
