A winter dusk shroud chill and clinging
flows along the valley floor
pigeons clap as homeward winging
they flee the advancing frosty hoar.
Rosy tinted the mist of sun down
wavers a final wan adieu
caressing the starkly naked wood crown
awaiting the morrow to be born anew.
Deep within the woodland silence
stands a ghostly once proud pine
stricken by a stormy violence
now the branches whitely shine.
Such a tree as once was glowing
standing 'gainst the winter cold
cold dead now yet 'tis full of living
a haven for the weak and old.
Dusk rises chilly midst the trees
pigeons take their favoured bough
and tiny birds flock against the freeze
a norther cruel begins to sough.
At the pine they swiftly gather
a chattering, jostling chime of wrens
filling the shadows with their blather
popping into sheltered dens.
Snug within the pine's dead bole
clustering sharing body heat
a slowly chirping feathered whole
one warmth, one mass, one soft heartbeat.
The old wrecked pine's a faithful friend
it's hollow heart now a cosy nest
stalwart ever it doth defend
the wrens throughout their nightly rest.