Birch and it’s silver paper bark

The giveness of existence
The eternity of time
The realness and actuality
Is the Birch that likes to climb
Straightway on a spindle
Directly to the sky
A pioneering principle
Of how undying I

Look out into Autumn
The backbone of our year
That uses winds to tear off leaves
And barks too
They will clear
The silvery purposeful tapestry
In which to write an ode
With all its pace and rhythm
That stretches down the road

The bard sees the great Birch tree
As a symbol for his soul
It’s spreads into the forest
With a will just to control
The peacefulness and giveness
That the Druids tend to be
Taking on the knowledge
Held in constancy

The mighty oak spreads skywards
The Druids honour shows
Is it about tradition
And such long life
it shows
A transcendence into wisdom
And true supremacy
Massively strong and resilient
The mighty oak now be

Sacred to a point beyond
A sovereign let us say
And the mistletoe that sometimes does grow
To be plucked upon a day
Around the Yule sabatt
When frost comes by to play
To whiten paths and branch
Tips on any given day