In these woods, for me, I see only memory.
In the fallen trees of lonely trails
And scattered shattered leaves,
My dreams of childhood come to be.

They drift off on the muddy damp ground,
To the understated sound
of the slow stream, rushing of cars,
distantly bustling by,

Surrounding the place my friends and I,
Spent empty summer days
In play of discovery
And empty summer nights
In youthful delight.

I look up to see seagulls in the sky.
Darting through the blue like dolphins through tides.
Saling round my head
Like blood clots in my eyes.

Trampling through their city paths,
Hunting ground, mean street.
They perch aloft towers of oak;
Dripping with prestige vine, wrapped
With silk leaves, soft to touch
And hard to climb.

The Sun sets over the seven lakes
Of spring kissed, freshly mown
Fields of scorn blessed by
Solitudal and beady eyes.
Gates keeping out the world that
Wishes them harm.

They sit so high peering down,
At our destitution, our self-prohetised Might!
And think:
“Pfft you all wish you could fly