Now George is to the Greenwood gone,
At the Turning of the Year.
To Horn and Harp and Minstrelsy,
To firelight and good cheer.
They placed a candle by his bed,
On that final, creeping day,
And humoured him with bread and salt,
And coin to pay the way.
He closed his eyes against the light,
Of the neon, clanking ward,
And took his Staff and curled his toes,
In the green and yielding sward.
He felt the wind that stirred the leaves,
At the waving forest rim.
The birds sang sweetly and the Earth,
It seemed, rose up to him.
He glimpsed a Lady bright and fair,
In green and gold and white,
Who called him by his name and sang,
Of peace and rest that night.
So, George is to the Greenwood gone,
At the turning of the year.
And Oak and Ash and Birch and Thorn,
Are welcoming him there.
By Mary Napper
November 2004
