Birch Orange

Hair, birch orange,

Doors that unhinge;

They work with cheeky cheer,

Ideas that impinge


Rust, birch orange,

Coarse and red-tinged;

Their quick, able fingers move,

Fixing the door-hinge


Rose hips, birch orange,

The fruit that they forage,

Mixed with their slight suppers,

And with meager porridge


Fires, birch orange,

Forest’s lungs astringe,

Just lost into the sultry night,

And their eyes, birch orange

The End

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