Oak Leaves

Crinkled skin made dents in my palm
as I clambered higher.
The golden beech jeered
I lost my grip,
a twig snapped beneath my red welly,
wood burnt my leathery hands.
The scratchy bracken cradled me as I landed,
the cold mud crept under my nails.
I stumbled to the old stream
and crouched beside the rotten oak stump,
letting the water trickle through my fingers.