Copse

In the hush of a quiet copse,
Where hazel and oak intertwine,
Sunlight filters through leafy lace,
Casting dappled gold on the mossy floor.

A blackbird’s song threads the still air,
While shy voles rustle beneath the fern,
And the ancient trunks stand as guardians,
Whispering secrets of centuries past.

Here, time slows to the rhythm of roots,
And the heart finds peace in the green embrace.