Moose

In the hushed glades of northern woods,
A moose strides slow beneath the cloud‑spun hoods,
His antlers wide as ancient branches spread,
A crown of timber where the moss is fed.

Through mist‑clad valleys and the silver loch,
He plods with quiet dignity, each step a soft‑spoken brooch,
His nostrils flare at pine‑sweet breath of rain,
While beetles hum a lullaby again.

When winter wraps the world in frosted lace,
He browses on the bark, a patient grace,
His breath a vapour plume against the pale,
A silent monarch in the frosted tale.

So raise a cheer for this great, gentle beast,
Whose presence makes the wildest heart feel blessed—
The moose, in Britain’s dreaming, proudly stands,
A living poem roaming amber lands.