Little Birchover

I feel you teasing back the cuticle of the wood

Crafting this clearing from nip and nod

We nickname it other than known on the map

As our secret local upland Peak

Right here where exhaustion still can stalk

I hear you in throats of swithering birds

Blackbird plumping up leaves under oaks

With harrumphing tuts

Where acorns hurt soles with unyielding treen

Scuttle through beech masts and lichens velveteen

I see you drizzling sunbeams over autumn fields

Flattened by bonfires and the winter's heels

Firedamp flickers in the stars smudged frost

Planets glimmering out and over

While the moon's fragile crust burns ochre

I smell your lit lamp of cadmium and glass

Tallow wax mournful as the twilight lasts

Even the squirrel is dreyed and tucked

But your comfort salts my spirit's ache

As rays flatline then vanish in earth's dimpled lake

I taste you as love in the air's liquid kiss

Soothing my temples with powder-soft peace

The path from the wood runs its fingers through me

But you, guest and gatherer, map and plumb

Lead me home in your arms with your whisper: Come!