UNDER THE LARCH TREES

The earth is black and brown
Under the hidden sky:
Pine needles crumbling down
To layers of peat. A dry

And lifeless, soundless world
Muffles the exploring tread.
The crack of a snapping twig
Arrests us, so dry, so dead.

What is there left to thrill us
Under the homely sky,
Since Attenborough swayed with gorillas
In lazy amity?

The book of nature is read now,
Familiar from cover to cover.
We might as well stay in bed now!
There's nothing left to discover.

But something no-one has shown me
Attracts on the dreary ground:
White threads round a centre, only
A dark hole. What have I found?

Surely the lair of a spider!
In English woods! What a find!
Like frost, the wispy, hider
Circles. Over there! And behind!

The ground is black and brown,
But nature makes use of the gloom.
Just let your eyes look down:
Inventiveness has found some room.