Like needles pricking into the face,

the vast expanse and open space,

the needles driving, bare skinned,

face exposed to the rain and wind.

The frozen hoof print ready to catch

you out, the print not much of a match,

for the boots are sturdy, they're strong,

the pace to keep against the throng,

Of the onslaught, contempt, wave after wave,

the storm keeps hitting, battering the slave

of winter, walk and walk, blood pumping,

up and down the hills, legs and lungs screaming.

The dismal scene from months gone

by, uprooted Oak, roots exposed, bygone

times the Royal has stood and fought,

the wind, the rain, the final onslaught

the gales and gusts the final act,

the path we've walked along and tracked,

many times before, just firewood, embers and smoke,

the future now for that exposed, bygoned, Royal Oak.