Winter woodland walk

Boxing Day mizzle
Drains the colour from the woods.
Golds and coppers faded,
Replaced by muted tones of green, brown and grey.
A steady rhythm of drips forms the soundtrack to my walk,
Harmonising with squelching mud,
The occasional splosh of a puddle,
A rainy-day woodland melody.
Long-tailed tits, 
Aerial acrobats tumbling through the oak trees, 
Call softly to each other
And a single nuthatch tentatively whistles.
The rain stops.
The world becomes strangely silent, 
The peace suddenly broken 
By the whirr of a woodcock’s wings.