There’s drama in the woods when the observer is Andrew Young, the Scottish poet-cleric. Both pieces come from his Selected Poems (Carcanet, £9.95). 

THE BEECH

Strength leaves the hand I lay on this beech-bole
So great-girthed, old and high;
Its sprawling arms like iron serpents roll
Between me and the sky.

One elbow on the sleeping earth it leans,
That steeply falls beneath,
As though resting a century it means
To take a moment’s breath.

Its long thin buds in glistering varnish dipt
Are swinging up and down,
While one young beech that winter left unstript
Still wears its withered crown.

At least gust of the wind the great tree heaves
From heavy twigs to groin;
The wind sighs as it rakes among the dead leaves
For some lost key or coin.

And my blood shivers as away it sweeps
Rustling the leaves that cling
Too late to that young withered beech that keeps
Its autumn in the spring.

THE LAST LEAF

I saw how rows of white raindrops
From bare boughs shone,
And how the storm  had stript the leaves
Forgetting none
Save one left high on a top twig
Swinging alone;
Then that too bursting into song
Fled and was gone.