They live another planet’s life,
Their world a maze of creviced wood ,
And flakes of bark and spider’s webs.
They seek the scent of insect’s paths.
And up they spiral, ever up –
Their probing, prizing spikes of beaks
Are thrust into the rotten reek –
They never reach the canopy.
Then out across the autumn woods
Where fungal spores spread sickly mats,
They claim their trees with needle trills
Like crystal wrens at misting dawn.
In otherness they live their lives,
As alien spirits of the oaks.