Edward Thomas - The Combe
The combe was ever dark, ancient and dark.
Its mouth is stopped with bramble, thorn and briar,
And no-one scrambles over the sliding chalk
By beech and yew and perishing juniper
Down the half precipices of its sides, with roots
And rabbit holes for steps. The sun of winter
The moon of summer, and all the singing birds
Except the missel-thrush that loves the juniper
Are quite shut out. But far more ancient and dark
The Combe looks since they killed the badger there,
Dug him out and gave him to the hounds,
The most ancient Briton of English beasts.
