By Charles Barker-Benfield, who knows someone with PH
A crooked oak, leaves shed
by autumn winds now past,
leans above the hedgerow
bowed low with freshly fallen snow.
Deep down amongst those fallen leaves,
his shivering frame cushioned softly in the moss,
a dormouse stirs awake from winter sleep,
restarts his tiny heart and ventures out to feed
On fallen berries picked by careless birds then lost;
on seeds from autumn cached and hidden deep;
his larder ready for a night as cold as this.
Rustles murmur through the leaves, then still.
A snowy owl stretches, his shadow small from moon
so high above. Then flies across the field
of frozen snow: with swoops, with turns,
with gently beating wings: no sound; a master of his skill.
A fox appears, trots by to hunt with purpose.
Tail a flourish, ears alert: ‘I am gone’ she says,
‘I was not here’ yet leaves her prints so clear.
All quiet; a rustle in the leaves then still.
The blackbird warns, his cry not yet a song.
And under the oak, unseen, all sheltered
in their hidden world, the mice return
to nest and sleep once more till spring.
The others wait. For dawn; for sun
to warm the air, to see, to feed.
To sing, to live another day and hear
a rustle from the leaves, then still.
AUTHOR COMMENTS:
Winter is a tough time for wildlife and people too.
