File:Lime leaves and mist - Flickr - Giles Watson's poetry and prose.jpg

I walk this little pathway behind Uffington every morning with my dog. Usually, my mind is tied up with school things at that time, but on this occasion I noticed the subtle glory of it.

THE LEAFY BOWER Y Deildy

Perfect poets! My Lovely bless: My golden girl of tousled tress. “Dafydd, come!” I heard her say Midst birch and hazel, boughs of may, Blushed with pride in my private place (Where else more fit to praise her face?) A citadel where no one goes, A living room that blooms and grows.

Slender, shy, she wends and weaves Toward my godmade house of leaves Widespread above, loam underfoot, My home lacks nought but dust and soot. No drudge shall tread its homely sod; My bower’s made by a holy god. My girl and I have one intent: A while in woodland, idly spent Listening to the birds together, The poets of wood and dawn and weather On branches weaving Cynghanedd , Who from the very leaves draw breath, Kindred, innocent of pity, Minstrels of the oak tree city. Dafydd shall be the harbinger And May himself the carpenter: His plumbline is the cuckoo’s note, His set square is the nightingale’s throat, His timbers are the daylight long, His laths the pangs of lovesick song, I his hatchet, she his spade; Love’s altar is the forest glade.

But now the year grows weak and wan And all my good green house is gone. I will not pay some hovelled hag To seek my love in grovelling rag: Love turns to hate, and green grows brown; My leafy bower has fallen down.