Old Wood

Old Wood

Down by the wood that hides the river,
a startle of birds cackle skywards.
A young deer, the colour of hazel,
becomes an arrow, pierces the depths
of waist high grass by the waiting field.

Two kites weave a net in a thermal,
hoping to snare the unwary.
Rabbits dive for cover, their tails flash
of dangers they sense around them.
The shadow of an oak blocks the way.

Trees are bending as if listening
to the chatter in the shadows.
There’s a world in there, a mix of souls,
And above it all, hanging there still,
a half moon, the colour of old bone.

Derek Ross