Woodland White Poem by Barry Middleton

White in a woods devoid of snow,
may be a mystery I cannot know.
It may have been the tail of a deer,
a flash that quickly would disappear.
I knew no bloom had fled its bower;
it was no pale and ghostly flower.
Like a bird it vanished from my sight;
no tree I knew had the gift of flight.
Perhaps it could be the poet's ghost,
or a fluttering rag on an old fence post.
For woodland white is strange and rare,
when autumn days turn cold and bare.
But perhaps it's best to leave some doubt,
than to know what a mystery is all about.