Their autumn motley long since tossed away

Lone standing trees display fine silhouettes -

An oak for all oaks, a very prince of poplars -

Each in its own space, free to be itself.

In brindled fawns and umbers, snuffs and greys

The woods beyond the hill wear winter furs

Flung boldly over tweedy, homespun bark.

With simple lures - a nest, a broken branch,

One last small cluster of remaining leaves -

They trap stray shafts of winter-pallid light

Entangle them, make them linger, let them go.

Long roots thrust deep beneath the frozen clat

They relish all weathers, bitter sleets and frosts

Sing mightily in wild, uplifting gales