One of my favourite walks at this time of the year is up the glen of the downs in Co Wicklow. There is one point along the steep path where I like to stop and look down into the valley through the gnarled limbs of the young oaks (young in that they are probably only 150 years old) and for some reason feel obliged to come up with a short poem about what I see, but my words always sound so contrived so I try to refrain.
NO NEED FOR WORDS.
No need for words
The photo says enough
But I cant help myself
Tediously twisted tortured tangled trees )