Seán Hewitt - Dryad

I remember her covered in snow in a field
where each dead stalk of wildflower was thick
with frost. The sky was pink in the hawthorns,
 
the day held on the light-edge of breaking.
A woman carved from the bole of an oak,
her feet (if she had any) buried in the winter’s
 
shedding weight. Whoever had turned her
from the tree had given her an orb
which she held in both hands, close to the gentle
 
curve of her face. And she stood there
by the half-rotten stile off Broad Lane,
head bowed, as though waiting to gr...