I hide beneath the Holly tree. Safe through the Solstice night.
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The kind old Holly tree
Heavy with years, bent by tears
Growing by the woodland eaves.
Her sweeping, weeping branches shelter me
Where I hide from Herne
And the Wild Hunt that runs at midnight.
Cradling me, keeping me warm and dry.
I lie enchanted, gladly watching
Moonlight flowing across the valley
Bathing my land silvered with winter frost.
Deer wander by huffing and a-browsing
Badgers snuffle in search of worms
Old Charlie Fox peers in at me.
I hear their hot breath sighing
And frost diamonds crack.
A tiny wood mouse hurries across my feet
I smell wood smoke, acrid, sharp
Winding up the valley on freezing Northern airs
Someone is burning Holly wood!
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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.
