Wind, you, this oak grandfather clock;
That clicked and knocked in Nature’s wind;
That grew and leafed and once housed things
More and less than clockwork. I grew
Once in the sweet season scents,
Ignorant of axe-men and axe-wounds,
Who, sent on their rounds sent
Me to be wound. Slung to the
Round, conforming blade
That confined me to box. And yet
This age would be young were I but
Livelier wood. Hands
I may have, but my rings are now lost,
And my boughs and roots, once strong to climb,
And my new-leaf shoots, gone now for chimes
(Do they comfort your nights, my new-life screams?)
That are of a gold less precious than green.

My youth was the joy of wind’s breath on my branches –
Before your deep breaths in the chore of your winding.
Now we have purpose, but once I had meaning –
In whispering and twisting and creaking and leaning.

So what if I do fall, and you choose to be taken with me;
Would I not, with every care, place a cigarette
Between your lips?

Why, I hardly recognise you.

There is a camera in the first drawer
On the right side of the bedroom
As soon as you enter the door,

But, of course,

Let's wait until, amongst our
Nicotine pleasures,
We find the right kind of laugh;
It is a matter of perspective -- do you
See, if I put it to you like that?

It is by laughter
That I would rather be remembered.
Such maudlin things as falls are better
Left far, far alone.

Volubility rose, the dreadful night,
Tall hot speech, Children scent.
Drumming the dumb and overhanging web,
The sea-green spell is, the the.

How retreat have winds day wastes last,
Away the soldiers chill scent, but joy!
Away dreadful language speech, rose’s!

How summer cruel, we brininess dull;
How soldiers sky, too.

Angry grow a die
At the too the say.

Day, there’s cool in fright.
Spell much, we how evening by
From hot and coldly fear:

To to to.