An Easter walk, but things aren’t right,
This wood drank far too much last night!
It dribbles and slurps as we splash our way
Down puddled paths of liquid clay.
The track is all awash at times,
Genesis, chapters six to nine!
Drives us to edges, where bile-green moss
Spreads like rumour, garrulous,
Over rain-soaked trunks and roots,
Praise the Lord for Hunter Boots!
The wind’s too cold and the world’s too wet
And the wood keeps drinking to forget,
But siskin still skitters, tree-creeper creeps,
Song thrush sings and tawny owl sleeps,
And though buzzard circles with glinting eye,
And goshawk glares from a grim, grey sky,
And the wood is a warning of what’s to come,
It’s home for roast lamb! as we’ve always done.
So we pile back into the four-by-four,
National Trust sticker on the hatchback door.
Photograph by James