A winter dusk shroud chill and clinging

flows along the valley floor

pigeons clap as homeward winging

they flee the advancing frosty hoar.

Rosy tinted the mist of sun down

wavers a final wan adieu

caressing the starkly naked wood crown

awaiting the morrow to be born anew.

Deep within the woodland silence 

stands a ghostly once proud pine

stricken by a stormy violence

now the branches whitely shine.

Such a tree as once was glowing

  standing 'gainst the winter cold  

 cold dead now yet 'tis full of living

a haven for the weak and old.

Dusk rises chilly midst the trees

pigeons take their favoured bough

and tiny birds flock against the freeze

a norther cruel begins to sough. 

At the pine they swiftly gather

a chattering, jostling chime of wrens

filling the shadows with their blather

 popping into sheltered dens.

Snug within the pine's dead bole

clustering sharing body heat

a slowly chirping feathered whole

one warmth, one mass, one soft heartbeat.

The old wrecked pine's a faithful friend

it's hollow heart now a cosy nest

stalwart ever it doth defend

the wrens throughout their nightly rest.