his land

I smelt smoke

On the wheezing of the wind when I awoke

A pyre of memory

Some fly-tipped treasury

Out there burning slow

Dark soaked fields

And the snuffling wet noses at my heels

Suddenly hackles raise

At the crackling of the blaze

Out there burning slow

And sometimes I catch him

With his axe in

The shadow

So secretive and private

But Im breathing in his life when

Hes out there burning slow

What a hoard

It should be wild

It should be where wanderers walk

That hidden wood of green

The lake that he gatekeeps

Yet I know not what for

I would tread

Build a fire and make the forest floor my bed

I would forage for my meal

And in doing start to heal

But instead

All the time I covet

What he covers

By the hedgerow

So secretive and private

But Im breathing in his life when

Hes out there burning slow

And sometimes I catch him

With his axe in

The shadow

So secretive and private

But Im breathing in his life when

Hes out there burning slow