Thirsty Thursdays

They drink from stream 
and lake 
and oak-leaf dew
and brew their tea 
from waterfall fountain. 

There’s a banquet of snacks
and a welcome knack for napping 
and every hour’s happy now 
because their feet are bare 
and there’s no one to stare 
and the chores are shared 
and nobody’s changing anything 
into a coach or a ridiculous dress 
or inexplicably poisoning the apples. 

They thought they heard 
a royal trumpet once, 
but they were quite mistaken 
(it was a swan). 

It’s simple here, in Wildling Wood, 
more stirred 
(by breeze) 
than shaken. 

::

In November, we poem.

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