A cup of coffee in the sun
A book, by a crackling fire
The wilderness, predicated on poetry
Renditions of Shakespeare
A game of sport
Beautiful gardens
That look in your eye
And a smoky measure, of amber gold.

All of these simple pleasures
But how simple, in reality?

For we are all connected
And woe betide he who forgets

These comforts, poetry even,
predicated on the hunt, or the farm
Long days, through the rain
Not necessarily true pain
But a certain kind of grit

What would you do?
No work, no food.

Do I really love the wilderness?
No.
I love my view of it
And should not forget the giants
on whose shoulders we sit.