Winter tree

A mild and blowy December afternoon, 
the watered-silk sky flushed with orange. 
A day for an adventure down a bridleway
last walked half a lifetime ago
with a small child strapped to my back.
Pollard oaks marking Medieval boundaries,
decay richly in fungal splendour.
A crumbling watchtower hides in a copse
vandalised and blind
a silent testimonial to previous troubled times.
And over a fold in the hill 
a squat Norman church nestles,
alone in the pasture
where inquisitive sheep stare
puzzled by the intruder.
And the sweet smell of wood smoke
wafts through the air
comforting in its familiarity.  
 


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