Wishing Willows

I knew a place down by the brook where, in the breeze, the willows shook and wary hare's in summers haze would leap and sport among the maize, startling pheasants into flight who'd hurdle hedgerows burning bright with campion and bramble wild reminding me that when a child I'd pick their fruit, me and my brother, and take them home to our dear mother who'd make a pie with pastry rich in butter with eggs and sugar, which we'd stuff our faces with ‘til replete, what I'd give once more to meet in that place down by the brook where, in the breeze, the willows shook.