KINGCOMBE OAKS

How many drovers before took their rest right here
sat beneath the spreading bows to sip October’s air?
How many felt the leaves turn crisp waiting for the word
to float and kiss the earth below, a counterpane for sward?
Raucous crows still shout like louts, applause from rasping jays
they sense the combe is spewing forth its food for winter days.
And short horns moan and munch the cud still fattening out at grass
but drovers now won’t come this way to tramp this ancient pass.
These Hardy oaks have weathered years, a century or more
while modern droving rushes by upon its four by four.
And have we all forgotten as season’s ebb and flow
Just what it was that drovers had not many years ago?
Kingcombe oaks remind us, stout guardians gaining girth
those drovers and the meek man shall inherit all the earth.