by Pamela Grey

One day when Father and I had been
To sell our sheep at Berwick Green
We reached the farm house late at night
A great moon rising round and bright.

Her strange beam shed on all around
Bewitched the trees and streams and ground.
Changing the willows beyond the stacks
To little old men with crouching backs.

To-day the sun was shining plain
They all were pollarded willows again.
But at night—do you believe they're trees ?
They're little old men with twisted knees.

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