The Green Man walks 'neath shady boughs
mayblossom in his hair,
a garland too of Elderflower
around a neck so fair.
Oak and Thorn, Birch and Elm,
he strides beneath them all,
the time is near, when those who will,
deck out their Mayday hall.
A rod of Silver Birch he spies
with ribbons hanging down,
soon the Beltaine feast will start,
a queen she will be crowned.
As night draws in the balefire's lit
to drive away the fears,
of barren beasts which faerie folk
may cause to suffer here.
A glass of ale, a platter full
is left amongst the trees,
to give up thanks for blessings given
for yet another year.

All your poems seem to flow so naturally. You are definatley gifted.
