Thetford Forest Poem by Roy Ballard

Common mullein, first fiery foot of rocketry,
leaps to the sky in fits of yellow sparks,
its fireworks failing in the fir-damp air.
Slowly, like a wraith, the dog's breath slips
through the rain-drenched trees.
They're hung with ghosts, long, grey and thin:
last year's dead needles, jealous of the green,
the soft, new buds and summer's smell of pine,
the cornflowers to come and the cuckoo pint,
and all the summer things that come to pass.