King Of The Forest

On gnarled furrowed bark, does thick ivy grow,
Sharing the branches, with rare mistletoe.
The King of the forest, is old like the yew,
A grove for the druid, known by the few
 
There in your shade, do wild flowers grow,
The primrose, the bluebell, the foxglove and so,
Late April to May, new oak leaves appear,
Soon pollen filled catkins hanging so clear.
 
The wise men of oak, know the dryads abound
From the tip of the apex, to deep underground.
And the marriage of mistletoe, and old English oak,
Is considered divine… by the magical folk.
 
By June your leaves, thick, verdant, and green,
Distinct and abundant for all to be seen,
Keeping the spirit of Robin alive…
And Merlin and Herne, who’s legends survive.
 
The wise men of oak, know the dryads are bound,
From the tip of the apex, to deep underground.
And the marriage of mistletoe, and old English oak,
Is considered divine… by the magical folk.
 
The last oak leaf never falls from the tree,
An old country tale that was passed onto me.
Be it oak from ol’ wistmans, or oak from the tor,
seek different dimensions, see through the door.
 
The wise men of oak, know the dryads are bound,
From the tip of the apex, to deep underground.
And the marriage of mistletoe, and old English oak,
Is considered divine… by the magical folk.