On White Horse Hill

Alone I stand, the blasted thorn, Devoid of leaves and all forlorn, A sentinel for countless years, Of storms and gales I have no fears. Ignored by man and sheep and rook Into the vale I longing, look, O’er Uffington I survey, long, As through my twigs a mournful song Is whispered by the Western wind. Against the slope I’m firmly pinned, In ancient chalk my roots are bound In sight, below, of dragon’s mound. Unchanging down the ages, I, Stark silhouette against the sky And visitors espy me still Abandoned here, on White Horse Hill.