As the dry and blackened twigs did lie
Upon the solemn woodland floor,
Where perished and so brittle
They did crumble under foot.
At rest they dwelt and lingered there
Amongst the mass of scattered leaves,
That glowed like fading embers
In the early morning sun.
The shadows cast from sleeping trees
Made patterns on the pitted ground,
As they entwined and met
The veins of darkness crossed my way.
A rotting trunk lay snapped in two
Enveloped in an ivy grave,
And coated in a cloak of moss
That clung unto its bark.
While limp and lifeless bracken dwelt
Within a tangled web of straw,
That wrapped around its weary stems
As if a golden shroud.
The crown of rosebay willow herb
Had withered on its drooping brow,
As there it hung its head in shame
Beside the bush of thorn.
While a crow surveyed the woodland
From the ash’s bough that rose above,
For drawn by death he waited
In the reapers robes he wore.
