I seem to be a creature
Of the dappled woods
Living for pools of sunlight
Crossing by ferns and brackens and great trees
They here by dint of
Some wealthy families historical foresight
I bathe myself
In their
Dark Mills
Woods left and planted and managed
Trees grounding my stuttered poor man’s progress.
The air is fuller here
Richer
Earthed into a raising up into light
An atmosphere’s
Romance with trees
Made wild by grim mill
Or distillery’s husbandry
