The trees are bare and soon the winter’s gust
Will roar and sweep the widening plain, and bend
The antlered beech, his massive body shake,
And twirl his last brown leaf, a golden curl.
The frost will come and with his frozen feet
Will tread upon the pond and make the stream
An iron sheet, a line of glistening jewels.
The blackbird’s song upon the twig will cease,
And all the world will be a solemn sight.
The crystal dew will drop from off the thorn;
The early driver from his couch will rise
And drive from reddening hills the blinding mist,
Low into that valley where in Spring
The choir thrush his billowy notes floats out,
That loudly ring and echo in the wood,
Where the rabbit, sleek and pawed with silence,
Scurries through the grass into the bracken.
Bertie Robinson Age 12