BROUGHTON GREENWOOD ©
The shadows of lofty tree tops
creep over the blade of grass,
Ghostly yellow moon glides,
making its nightly pass.
Pheasant nestles on the bough,
as ferret patrols the nettles,
Partridge guards her precious young,
as crocus closes petals.
Silence like a cloak is thrown,
as the mist begins to thicken.
Dewdrops cling beneath the leaf,
the breeze begins to quicken.
The breeze begins to tempt the mist,
but mist is shy and flees.
Green leaves cannot flee the branch,
but dance to please the breeze.
But the breeze is not so friendly,
and becoming so obsessed.
Calls in another,
who blows with much more zest.
Soon the whole of Broughton Woods,
like mad Dervishes is dancing.
Darkening clouds obscure the moon,
and startled deer are prancing.
Gypsies sooth the nervous horse,
and wrap it warm instead.
There will be no sleep for them,
until this raging storm has fled.
A crash, a flash, a tree is fired,
as lightning zips the ground.
But then God intervenes,
and rain pours all around.
The morning air is pure and fresh,
but weary Gypsies sleep.
Rain in puddles everywhere,
and over boulders neap.
The sun comes out, the cuckoo sings,
and leaves begin to dry.
While partridges off in yonder field,
scratch the ground and pry.
Scuttling beetle and earwigs
will not escape flashing beak.
But when the roving Gypsy seeks,
partridge future is gey bleak.
The wind has gone warm, breeze is back,
and doves nod with delight.
Gypsies make their pegs again.
Children run and fight.
Hide and seek in dark woods,
is not always what it seems.
In days gone by a mortal cry,
the twang of a bow and screams.
Robin Hood and his merry men,
lived here once in time.
Many stories have been told,
and many the nursery rhyme.
So should you choose to walk the path,
that meanders through Broughton Wood
And feel the breeze upon your neck,
it should be understood.
You could turn and face the bearded men,
the bearded men in Lincoln Green,
Who in this place so long ago,
plagued King John and took his Queen.