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More poems just about true
LIVING NEAR THE WILDWOOD
When I was young my aunt Bess used to tell me
Tales of the Wildwood where many animals ran free,
Told of scary noises and eyes shining bright,
No one ever went there in the dark of night.
‘Twas near a copse of beech trees atop of bluebell hill,
Then follow the winding path, so said uncle Bill,
To where jagged rocks barred the way unless you were brave,
Or in your imagination some fair maiden to save.
I always wondered if they told me tales that were tall
And there was no Wildwood to be found there at all,
When I went to visit, I climbed up to bluebell hill,
Found the path to the rocks told by uncle Bill,
There was beyond the craggy rocks, a dark deep wood,
The trees seemed old, even ancient and they stood
Tall and straight, almost holding hands, side by side,
Yet I did not feel afraid, my curiosity I could not hide.
I entered, the trees welcomed me sang a haunting song,
Rabbits and squirrels followed me along
An untrodden path to were a small cottage stood,
Smoke from the chimney, a warm smell of burning wood.
Now I know the secret, yet I cannot ever tell
Of the magic of the Wildwood, the mystery of the dell
In the middle of the wood, with shining eyes at night
All the beauty seen if you over come fear and fright.
(Millicent) Ann Margetson February 16, 2003