When still the thin leaves are on the trees
Before the green darkness descends,
There is light for the myriads of blue
Bells not to be taken away,
To drift in their legions like smoke in the hollows.
A dark dank wood of self setting trees
Of trees on their knees, of streams badgered
But not blocked, and ghosts of amenities.
This wood is the lost land of leisure
Victorian, Edwardian, the joys of past pleasure
Now they are left to the lover, the lost ones
Women with dog runs, the naturalists.