Butleigh - Wassail
A graveyard of trees

Bare trees whisper like skeletons on the move
Some are old and knobbly
Others young and smooth
Its colder than a graveyard
There is smoke in the air
They're burning all the cuttings
Of the trees that are so bare
A freezing wind begins to blow
The trees sound like ghosts as they creak
Trees may drop branches
And can condemn you to endless sleep.
-- Annabel Dukes --

Fire wood

The great old apple tree
Was chopped and torn

Now it lies in the fire
Wood pile all forlorn.
-- Katy Ball --

The mole
Crawling through the leaves
And long grass
Eating the odd old apple.

Cars going past, helicopters in the air
And birds singing in the trees.

The trees are bold and bare
With lichen on the bark
And instead of the apples
There is a soft green moss.
-- Jack Tucker --

Group Poems
Skeleton of the orchard
I rub my back against an old tree
It creaks. This time of year
The orchard is quiet. It's comforting.
The sky's constantly changing colour
Different trees getting duller and duller
And instead of the apples
There is a soft green moss.
Look at the mistletoe, copper yellow mistletoe
But deep in their heart
They are getting ready
For the big blooming spring.
In the middle of the orchard a fire burns
Everyone standing round.
Apple pie in the kitchen.
It looks like nothing's happening
That's what you can see.
There are millions like me
But I am unique
Spirits float from tree to tree
The trees are dormant quiet and sleepy
I am a flaky skinned, big white spotted
Mistletoe growing tree
There's not a red one to be found
Bare trees whisper like skeletons on the move
I am the one who is known as the tree.
I look out from the Tor
And see a little orchard
Look at the smoke of an old tree burning
Look at the mistletoe, copper yellow mistletoe
Look at the patches of yellow grass
Look at the fungi rings around the trees
Look at the apples squashed to the core
Hear the birds twittering
Hear the trees rustling, bustling
See no more apples
See no more blossom
Look its now winter.
Feel the winter breeze.
-- Luke Holman --

I, Tree

I am the one who is known as the tree
I stand in the orchard writing poems about me
My friends stay by me day and night
To ourselves we are very different
But to sheep and bees we are a very familiar sight
You see are skins are very different textures
Rough, flaky and smooth
Because only I have a bees hive in my tooth
Mistletoe in my nose
And sheep wool in my toes
But I still have creatures cuddling me
Some called John and Garry
Others called Chloe, Kate and Larry
Some times they never stop
And I have to drop apples on their heads
To get them off, but all they do is laugh and eat them
Or climb up my branches to get more of them
I myself think more of the bees
Though I wonder what they will think of us trees.
-- Eleanor Gillett-Skeath --

What am I ?
My home is cold, but I never feel it
There are millions like me
But I am unique
Each summer part of me is taken away
But I am never in pain.

No man can lift me
Or reach my head unassisted
I know all the secrets of the past
But now my time has come
I can see the farmer with axe.
But not a tear do I shed
-- Katy Ball --

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