Middleton Woods

When still the thin leaves are on the trees

Before the green darkness descends,

There is light for the myriads of blue

Bells not to be taken away,

To drift in their legions like smoke in the hollows.

A dark dank wood of self setting trees

Of trees on their knees, of streams badgered

But not blocked, and ghosts of amenities.

This wood is the lost land of leisure

Victorian, Edwardian, the joys of past pleasure

Now they are left to the lover, the lost ones

Women with dog runs, the naturalists.