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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 I'm breathing in his life when
He's 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 I'm breathing in his life when
He's out there burning slow.
And sometimes I catch him
With his axe in
The shadow
So secretive and private
But I'm breathing in his life when
He's out there burning slow.
Album
 His LandMore music by Paris Paloma
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