Herne stands – the majestic oak in woodland green.
Herne waits – the presence felt in a garden, never seen.
Herne runs – the sparkling stream chased by summer sun.
Herne loves – the inner glow in winter’s cold when we are one.
Demeter lies over a spring meadow filled with flowers.
Demeter dances as butterfly through long daylight hours.
Demeter sighs when royal purple covers my beloved moor land.
Demeter holds me close when my hair becomes a silver strand.