Mistaken for Hell’s Angel when in flight,

A silent sorcerer of secret wood,

His eerie form displaying by the night.

By day he lies invisible to sight

Pressed hard to bough and branch of Old Sherwood,

Belying this Hell’s Angel when in flight.

The churring call he makes is his birthright -

A challenge to the forest’s neighbourhood,

Preceding his bolero of the night.

Toss a rag to tempt him to the twilight,

A foolproof feint - a bait to his manhood,

Eliciting his dancesteps when in flight.

He cannot fail to fall to this invite,

Impressing mates with wings which clap and thud -

The covert’s own Hell’s Angel of the night.

Such sound and spectre of what woodland sprite

Would chill some ancient stranger’s bones and blood?

Mistaking for Hell’s Angel when in flight

His eerie form displaying by the night.