Like beautiful yet unkempt hair, weed flows gracefully at the bottom of the woodland stream,
Sticklebacks play tag between the strands, ten or twelve to a team,
The weeping willow does anything but, as it sighs without a care,
Tousling it’s own green mane, from here to over there,
A woodland breeze springs up,
Bending the bluebells slightly, emptying a buttercup,
Playing the leaves like an infinitely stringed lire,
When day turns to dark, we find our way lit by St. Elmo’s fire,
While the man in the moon looks down,
Smiling without a frown,
Reflecting quite happily.