These leaves of beech first breathed in spring,
And trembled, touched by summer rains,
Turned copper crisp through autumn frosts,
And with our coming, shiver on.
We flick our wings against the thorns
Of sloe and brittle bramble shrub,
We take our pick of haws and hips.
Amongst the beech we hide from hawks.
On winter nights the starlight calls
Of redwing heading further south:
The finest needle points of fear.
We huddle then behind the leaves.
We wait together in the beech.
We fly together in the snow.