Oak Leaves

Crinkled skin made dents in my palm

as I clambered higher.

The golden beech jeered

I lost my grip,

a twig snapped beneath my red welly,

wood burnt my leathery hands.

The scratchy bracken cradled me as I landed,

the cold mud crept under my nails.

I stumbled to the old stream

and crouched beside the rotten oak stump,

letting the water trickle through my fingers.