Great Ridge Wood.
Wispy cloud stroked the lark's song
to where the buzzard's cry
soared o'er the edge of the
Great Ridge Wood.
Beneath lay the chalk.
On the light carried me,
beech and oak guiding me
soon I'd my lover see
here I would wedded be
By the great tree.
Through the wood's edge I rode.
The treetops roared.
A deer hid then ran.
The path whispered:
Here he be.
© Paul McCombie 2005