And now for something a little different, being a poem from the perspective of one King Tree. Sadly I learned today that Happenstance Border Morris will not be able to gather this year at Snowshill, Gloucestershire for what's known as the orchard-visiting wassail 🙁
There's a brilliant video of the antics from January 2014
here. I think there might be a fuller account in the Postlip footage (including the robin and the rifle), so I'll try to locate that soon.
Dad on descant recorder 😂 (and other things)
Wassailing World
The gardener pats our frosted trunk today;
says, "Sorry, mate. They might not come this year."
We lower all our limbs in deep dismay
and shed a single sappy little tear.
No wassailing for us, King Tree, and ours?
No orchard visiting this January?
We vow that we shall birth a thousand sours,
and wormy, if there's no festivity.
How we should miss the rings around our girth
accompanied by sticks, the happy
thwack!
The rousing cider poured upon the earth,
the decorative toasts in gold and black;
the jangling of the pots and pans until
a
BANG! the rifle fires; the evil souls
disperse and for a moment all is still,
but for the steam that rises from the bowls.
Wassail! Drinkhail! Then music.
Hear ye all
our fruity song to rouse the Winter trees.
Our Robin, not forgotten, has a ball
of fat while folks eat bread and mouldy cheese.
Oh, Robin. Would you sing to us, perchance,
with beak wide open, russet wings unfurled?
And will you drum your pretty feet and dance
once human beings have left this ailing world?
🍎🍎🍎