Dawn breaks with the bounding hound,
awoken from sleep to the far crow sound,
high in the Oak Woods their cackle and caw,
high rising the sun to the Earth’s morning thaw.
The Cockrels are calling as Hens rustle wings,
high over head the wild Sklark sings,
frosty breath Sheep bleet a greeting to day,
as the Horse wakes and whinnies to fresh smelling hay.
In the distance a Woodpecker drums on the Pine,
alone in the Oak wood that fattens the Swine,
near by a white flock of emboldened white Geese,
call with us all to the upcoming feast.
The Artist there stirs with his first cup of tea,
and the Poet next door waves a hand that’s pen free,
the tired musicians strike a tune for the new,
as fires are lit down here under the blue.
The rural bohemian Winter’s full swing,
of long blackened nights when we paint write and sing,
of crisp early mornings tending to the creatures,
as here we play out Oakley Wood’s ancient nature.
awoken from sleep to the far crow sound,
high in the Oak Woods their cackle and caw,
high rising the sun to the Earth’s morning thaw.
The Cockrels are calling as Hens rustle wings,
high over head the wild Sklark sings,
frosty breath Sheep bleet a greeting to day,
as the Horse wakes and whinnies to fresh smelling hay.
In the distance a Woodpecker drums on the Pine,
alone in the Oak wood that fattens the Swine,
near by a white flock of emboldened white Geese,
call with us all to the upcoming feast.
The Artist there stirs with his first cup of tea,
and the Poet next door waves a hand that’s pen free,
the tired musicians strike a tune for the new,
as fires are lit down here under the blue.
The rural bohemian Winter’s full swing,
of long blackened nights when we paint write and sing,
of crisp early mornings tending to the creatures,
as here we play out Oakley Wood’s ancient nature.
©David Nickle Read 2016
All Rights Reserved By The Author
