Come down to the little forest universe
of stump-crag glens of moss and lichen;
painted autumn toadstools crowding
every colour wonder cries to itemise;
and puff-balls bubbling in their hides
like green rhinocerae.
Pins-in-your-fingers, come and pry,
for the polished woods of chestnuts scattered roll
on the beds of leaves, or in velvet wombs
they gleam from their spiny chrysilae.
Come as the twilight draws in badger holes
like wells of winking water, and the hands
of thin sticks clench to clasp the sky;
with the talking, coloured children, gather home
to roast your harvest on the bath-time fire