Mysteries Etched in Lichen’s Embrace: A Poem about Wistman’s Wood.

In Wistman’s Wood where legends lie, ‘Neath brooding boughs and moorland sky,
A tale is told in stones and roots, Of spectral oaks in druidic boots.

Oh, sing the song of ancient woods, Where tales dwell ‘neath mossy hoods,
Dappled sunlight through the leaves, A silent whisper in the eaves.

Through time’s thick fog and mystery’s lace, Echoes of a druidic race,
Wander ‘mongst the gnarled bark, Treading soft ‘twixt light and dark.

In knotted wood and lichen’s clasp, Grasp we now the druid’s gasp,
Footsteps on the mossy floor, Echoes of the days of yore.

The stones, like old men, stand in wait, Guardians at the woodland’s gate,
With runes of old and lichen’s kiss, They speak of forgotten days of bliss.

Listen well, ye wayward souls, To the wind that softly tolls,
The tales of yesteryears reside, In Wistman’s Wood, where spirits hide.

Among the trees, the secrets keep, Of those who watch, and those who sleep,
In the hush, a story’s spun, Of ancient days ‘neath Dartmoor’s sun.

In Wistman’s Wood, the story’s told, Of men of yore, and druids bold,
And as the dusk begins to fall, Listen, you can hear them all.

So, tread with care and whisper low, For you are where the legends grow,
And in its tales, forever we’ll reside, In Wistman’s Wood, where spirits hide.

Nick (tors and lore)