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.
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