Drove Road in February

Showers of tiny pink and copper birds,
finches and flying leaves,
bounded by herringbone drystone
ancient barbed wire
and lines of dancing beeches
that step and bow 
in formal syncopation.

Here sheep once carved a path,
deep with stories, 
on up to the Triscombe Stone,
and someone's left a wreath
or crown, of evergreen
and winter berries,
under the age old stone,
and the brand new finches,
dancing in endless circles 
of woven twigs
under copper beeches.