The forest that flanks heavy upon the sea, with fine salt sprayed
When it drops dejectedly upon the granite, upon the earth
Before the birds so fill these widening plains as what's destined
And the ships dance on like old gossamer upon the zenith
The sun's specie that falls by its own weight to a nadir
The bullet shot of a silence drowning without desire
The forest whose leaves are grave and ponderous, in balance
Whichever of these dead leaves left of last year's passing seasons
Whichever of these men who push, pass, pinch, pee and think remembrance
Whichever of these tingles in platoons of partisans
And the exhausted carpet of blond skate with brown-stained stripes
The thick darkened mosses dotted with mushroom vege-types
The forest, here, the great ax and the great saw and here and there
The towpaths that traverse the bushes the brambles the spines
The coal that long-ago promised freedom beyond compare
And universal cinder where we would embrace our own origins
Nourishment for the Earth whose labour that you do drink
Crossing continually the heavy solitude of kings
