Scrapping through the hedgerows,
scouring winter meadows.
Searching local lanes
for prized ill-gotten gains

For eons the poor, the meek, the good
collected old, dead, rotten wood.
The villagers exercised their right
to forage any local site

We only pick what’s on the ground.
We leave far more than lies around
for little beings need their share
for shelter, we are so aware

Our treasure helps to warm our toes
and cheers us as our woodpile grows.
We’ve hauled and shifted, all with glee,
but best of all, it comes for free!