A mile out along the river .

A mile out along the river willows sit along the bank .

Secateurs in coat pocket I go out with a capacious bag .

I cut long lengths but only take what I need and I thank the tree .
I always thank the tree out loud otherwise it doesn't count .

By the lock is a thorny bush plump with rosehips . Snip , snip and home as  the rain comes down .

Now , you must work the willow whilst it's still sappy . Leave it and all you've got is very big twigs .
I force the lengths into a circle , weaving in the ends as I go .Amongst the sappy circle rosehips now sit proud .

I didn't thank the rosehip bush . It has large vicious thorns and the Christmas door wreath has indeed got plenty of rosehips on it.
The pale wood now has some of my blood staining it where the thorns caught me .
That's justice and the staining would not be noticeable unless you knew .

Along the road are plastic wreaths that light up and manufactured wreaths , every one made to exacting factory standards . Some are made by people who take a stall and sell the things for jaw dropping prices and there are some that are discount shop bargains .
I think that they all count . Shut the door and you're not getting the benefit , instead you cheer the weary traveller coming up the hill . That's unselfish and I like that .

The wreath I made , though .
Ah , that speaks of an older history and a deeper furrow .
People before me , down the years , have cut willow and been pricked by rosehip thorns .
I am proud to hold hands with them this season .