Wealdwatch Acorn

An acorn hatches; a dragon rises.

In the valley and the deep woods,
where the dark, chattering brooks run,
by ruined stone, by empty fort,
in the grove they called the Wealdwatch,
from oak to ground an acorn falls.

Autumn smiles, stars shine, the winds sigh,
seasons turn and the earth rises
and cradles that tiny green seed,
till the rains fall and wet the grass,
and with them nourish a new life.

With years flown by, a crack is born,
and the damp ground stirs, parts away,
for reaching into open air
there comes a claw, hooked and curling,
clad in rough, russet skin of bark.

As the hatchling climbs, dirt sloughs off,
and little wings of wood are spread;
the wild call of a wyrmling soars,
birds take flight in fright, swiftly flee ―
woods know well the look of dragons.

Its eyes glow shimmering verdant,
its horns curving up, sharp and strong,
leaves and buds flourish on its wings,
and the air rushes through them all
as this newborn takes to the sky.

Centuries pass, trees only grow,
its wings cloak the Wealdwatch below,
old and strong it guards those green lands,
pilgrims brave the deep woods to seek
its words, its wild kind of kindness.

In time there is always a frost,
a hard winter creeping southward,
when forests are left bare and cold,
the rivers, lakes and lands all freeze,
and ancient trees come to their rest.

Twin emerald fires waver
as the oaken god bows its head,
for the age of ice has risen,
and life must leave its goodly eyes,
the sun sets over oak and ash.

In the end there are only roots,
but roots can grow, and the woods live,
and when winter fails, the rains hail,
to wet the earth as spring makes new ―
from oak to ground an acorn falls.