She lie dying in the hospital
Liver failure of the most innocent type
Not two days old and she had a foot in the grave
The doctors tried, and tried
UV, IV, Lights and drips and even ***** donations.
The nurses came and went
And the mother was worried sick
And then they prayed.
The father and his father
The mother and all her friends.
Her grandmother, her aunts and uncles and cousins.
And the grandfather prayed. He stood over her as she laid in the cradle and crossed his hands in prayer; head bowed humbly before his God.
And he called her his Little Kestrel.
The pastor's prayer did the trick
And she recovered nice and quick.
The baby grew and grew and continues still to grow
Making everyone who prayed thankful and proud for all she'd become.
And soon she will be a full grown Kestrel; ready to take flight with full fledged beauty for the world the behold
Ready to take flight and show her grandfather
What a Kestrel she had become

i wish i was a kestrel flying in the sky
with elegance and grace flying oh so high
the wind beneath my wings hovering so free
flying round the mountain tops with so much to see

with a life of freedom i would gently soar
just a life so free no worries anymore
living in a nest high up in a tree
happy and content the way that life should be

i looked across a field and saw a kestrel fly
hovering in a field that was near by
floating in the air in the summer breeze
he was very skillful and floated with such ease
then he seem to swoop down towards the ground
so very nice and quiet he didnt make a sound
when he came back up again he had caught a mouse
then he flew away with it. back to his kestrel house.

A lone kestrel circles slowly overhead
shrieking
as she scans the ground below.
The soughing wind gently scatters
Autumn's leaves
in a rush of bright colour,
as fingers of sunlight
stab
through the trees.

I close my eyes
breathing deeply.
I hear the wind
and the kestrel.
I open my eyes
and see the colour
where the sunlight falls
and the kestrel's drop
straight as an arrow.

i looked across a field and saw a kestrel fly
hovering in a field that was near by.

floating in the air on the summer breeze
he was very skillful and floated with such ease.

then he seem to swoop down towards the ground
so very soft and quiet he didnt make a sound.

then when he flew up again he had caught a mouse
then he flew away with it. back to his kestrel house.

i like to watch the kestel when he begins to fly
flying with such grace high up in the sky
hovering on the wind till the time his right
to take away his food to fill his appetite

with the speed of light diving to the ground
as silent as can be he dosent make a sound
with a mighty swoop and his kestrel skill
in between his talons he takes away his ****.

a master of the sky a lovely bird his he
the beauty of the kestrel is such a sight to see

Creative. Stubborn. Those are the words that describe Kestrel when she makes food. She makes the food from her mind. No help. Never recipes. Sometimes the food is yummy, like a plump juicy tomato coated in a thick covering of butter, cheese, and salt. Sometimes however, it turns out bad. And I mean really bad. Like the time she made banana toothpaste. I yawned and stretched my arms as I wandered downstairs in the morning. I was hoping for a bowl of sweet cereal and cool milk. When I came down there was no cereal. There was instead a sheet of mashed up bananas. Above the mush was Kestrel, happily adding a white powder that could be salt, sugar, or crushed up altoids. There was no way to tell. When I asked her what it was, she said “Banana toothpaste”. I stuck out my tongue at her, making my eyebrows into little arches, and walked away. Another time, I asked Kestrel why she never uses recipes. Her answer was “I like to create”. I wonder who she will turn out to be. Sometimes I see her watching her shows and I worry. I want her to be her own person. And then I remember the toothpaste. “Banana toothpaste. Banana toothpaste.” She’ll be okay. No, she’ll be amazing. My little sis and her banana toothpaste.

My **** today was
Huge
And meaningful.

i like to watch the kestrel when he begins to fly
flying with such grace high up in the sky
hovering on the wind till the time his right
to take away his food to fill his appetite

with the speed of light diving to the ground
as silent as can be he dosent make a sound
with a mighty swoop and his kestrel skill
in between his talons he takes away his ****.

a master of the sky a lovely bird his he
the beauty of the kestrel is such a sight to see

Sometimes, I fancy myself a bird
not just any bird, mind you, but
a swift bird of prey;
the auburn and grey plumage.
I am a kestrel, a thief of life’s goods
the hunter of the open plains
razor sharp eyes spot movement
talons clutch the still moving prey
as I take off again for heaven
soaring above the city,
I take no notice of man’s ardor
or his creativity or construction
the only thing my mind focuses on
is what shall be the next target
I am no eagle, the king of the skies
to be fair I have no noble blood
instead, I bear the incomparable
position of having all and being nothing
such freedom it gives me!
savoring each morsel of life
between every beat of my wings
the north wind whispers
its most secret desires
that all may live like this

it starts with you
sitting underneath the sun at dusk
the only noise you can focus on
is your languid breathing
while the scent of the hot wind
curls into your nostrils
in wicked streams

your slow and steady breaths
gives the beat for the rest of nature to imitate
her winds join in
offering a sweet and watery whisper
blending her breaths and your breaths in an airy duet
laying down the foundation for
the soft pitter-patter
of her plants and animals

her mischievous wind
knocks against the willow's branches
swinging her leaves.
their hollow ringing
is rhythmic and relentless

and then you hear it
the orchestral arrangement
that mother nature
has arranged for you
you become the conductor
of your movement
with your deliberate, languid winds

and when you take a pause in your rhythmic breaths
to savor the sweet scent of summer
as if it could be stamped on your mind
the kestrel's song plunges
into the orchestra
the shrill, sharp notes form a soloist in a flurry of feathers and beaks
completing the orchestra

as the moon rises, opening her pale eyes
as she sways to the rhythm of Earth's song

there was a little kestrel a little bird of prey
he  would hunt for  food thats how  he spent his day
flying round the fields with his beady eye
till he found his prey then drop down from the sky.

he was very fast like the speed of sound
swooping on his prey running on the ground.
grab it with his talons then again take flight
back in to his nest to fill his appetite.

Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.

have you seen the kestrel hover in the sky

looking down below for prey thats passing by

then a mighty swoop like the speed of light

when he spots his prey coming into sight.



quiet as can be he dosent make a sound

as he grabs his catch and takes it from the ground

high up in the sky he will  take his prey

with elegance and grace as he gently flies away

i'm not moralising, i see the toilet as the throne for the trinity of my excavations, like a coal-miner, i have my **** (the helmet and light bulb), i have my urinary duct (my chisel)... and i have my testicular duct (my shovel)... well... can't miss out on all the fun you peeps are having and not join in.

verboclasm is real,
in england it's basically
f@!& etc., and in america
it's ****** (n@!i'm not moralising, i see the toilet as the throne for the trinity of my excavations, like a coal-miner, i have my **** (the helmet and light bulb), i have my urinary duct (my chisel)... and i have my testicular duct (my shovel)... well... can't miss out on all the fun you peeps are having and not join in.

verboclasm is real,
in england it's basically
f@!& etc., and in america
it's ****** (n@!'m not moralising, i see the toilet as the throne for the trinity of my excavations, like a coal-miner, i have my **** (the helmet and light bulb), i have my urinary duct (my chisel)... and i have my testicular duct (my shovel)... well... can't miss out on all the fun you peeps are having and not join in.

verboclasm is real,
in england it's basically
f@!& etc., and in america
it's ****** (n@!i'm not moralising, i see the toilet as the throne for the trinity of my excavations, like a coal-miner, i have my **** (the helmet and light bulb), i have my urinary duct (my chisel)... and i have my testicular duct (my shovel)... well... can't miss out on all the fun you peeps are having and not join in.

verboclasm is real,
in england it's basically
f@!& etc., and in america
it's ****** (n@!i'm not moralising, i see the toilet as the throne for the trinity of my excavations, like a coal-miner, i have my **** (the helmet and light bulb), i have my urinary duct (my chisel)... and i have my testicular duct (my shovel)... well... can't miss out on all the fun you peeps are having and not join in.

verboclasm is real,
in england it's basically
f@!& etc., and in america
it's ****** (n@!'m not moralising, i see the toilet as the throne for the trinity of my excavations, like a coal-miner, i have my **** (the helmet and light bulb), i have my urinary duct (my chisel)... and i have my testicular duct (my shovel)... well... can't miss out on all the fun you peeps are having and not join in.

verboclasm is real,
in england it's basically
f@!& etc., and in america
it's ****** (n@!'m not moralising, i see the toilet as the throne for the trinity of my excavations, like a coal-miner, i have my **** (the helmet and light bulb), i have my urinary duct (my chisel)... and i have my testicular duct (my shovel)... well... can't miss out on all the fun you peeps are having and not join in.

verboclasm is real,
in england it's basically
f@!& etc., and in america
it's ****** (n@!i'm not moralising, i see the toilet as the throne for the trinity of my excavations, like a coal-miner, i have my **** (the helmet and light bulb), i have my urinary duct (my chisel)... and i have my testicular duct (my shovel)... well... can't miss out on all the fun you peeps are having and not join in.

verboclasm is real,
in england it's basically
f@!& etc., and in america
it's ****** (n@!'m not moralising, i see the toilet as the throne for the trinity of my excavations, like a coal-miner, i have my **** (the helmet and light bulb), i have my urinary duct (my chisel)... and i have my testicular duct (my shovel)... well... can't miss out on all the fun you peeps are having and not join in.*

verboclasm is real,
in england it's basically
f@!& etc., and in america
it's ****** (n@!&#£
if you prefer political
sensitivity and a blanket
and a ***** and a nanny);
unlike germ- -any (+)-
where they love to **** on each
other in the shadow
of the crucifix procreating for films,
while in england they're
into children;
owning a use of a word,
venerating its usage:
where's the Schengen vocabulary?
i want to be there -
free flow of words like spotting
a kestrel in my garden one time,
while the traffic shovels hours
into comparison with sea waves
and a traffic-jam becomes a static tsunami
for the eyes.

i like to watch the kestrel hover in sky
on the thermal current as he hovers by
like a feathered kite floating wild and free
this lovely bird of prey i just love to see.

he his very skilful when he hunts his prey
one almighty swoop then takes his prey away
a master of the sky flying in the wild
from the realms of nature mother natures child.

Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.

.there's about a million Poles in England, give or take, since the introduction of the A8 in 2004... what's the trick of being a minority ethnicity? apart from the physiological similarity with the natives? you mingle with the upper-tier of "migrants" of Britain... you go to an Catholic school and mingle with the 2nd and 3rd generation Irish... you go to university and spend time with the Scots... you dismiss the Welsh as the boot licking crowd of what's Britain... but? most importantly? you speak the native's tongue better than the natives themselves... you allow yourself a chance to make your diacritical application a patch-work puzzle of pronunciation... i know that i speak two languages... but i can imitate three forms of accents... 2 in english, but only one in Polish... well... 2 in Polish... but not like some foreigner learning the language in Krakōw in some summer school... two languages... four accents... the countryside shyness for diacritical markers for urban folk... a complete disregard for them... 2 languages... 4 accents.

i'm not really into finding a drinking buddy...
what's with people using strong
alcohol to socialize?

             the moment i start talking after
about half a liter of whiskey
my tongue turns into an oyster -
   rather than a prodding rod -
a lance - you name it...

     once there's a cage on my speech -
i dare not put on the beer goggles
when i take to language -
  un-speaking what the natives speak...

kestrel eyes... mollusk tongue
   at that point...

     but it's nice to walk into a supermarket
and talk with a fellow ginger
about a product...
    ****! i knew i should have given
him the recommendation about
the henry westons' cider...
which would have went like so:

oh don't worry that it's 8.2% -
it's not Carlsbeg export...
believe me, you won't mind it...

the cashier?
    like my selection of whiskey...
eh?
    whyte & mackay...
the best **** on the block...
smooth whiskey...
   bells?
     we agreed, too smokey...
the famous grouse?
    ever get a hint of chocolate on
that kosher glug of
the highlinds?
                
       **** me... it's like one of those
moments when you play a song
in your head...
roxette's, from the seminal
album joyride: small talk...

             he mentioned some sweet whiskey,
warned me: might as well be
drinking Kentucky bourbon...

        what was that other song?
ah...
            from the movie inside man...
not being gay or anything:
but **** isn't Clive Owen
the morning cockerel...
   Washington isn't bad, either...
chaiyya chaiyya (bollywood joint)
remix...

George who?
   what was ever so big about Clooney
among the ladies' fantasies?
it was always Owen, all the day...
looks being one thing...
but the voice?
             close second,
                Jerard Beutlé(r)...

too much blah blah...
but when a blah blah moment comes,
and two people know
what they're talking about?
brilliant! please! more of it!
i can have a minute with someone
and then sink back into
my conversation hubris for a week...

i once "forgot" and didn't really
say a word for about a week...
               but honest to god...
this is probably the most mundane
"poem" i've ever written...

               either i haven't drunk enough,
or i'm thinking of something
completely different
to usher in the night.

Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.

i saw a kestrel fly a regal chap was he
flying in the sky flying wild and free
looking for his prey searching all around
all along the hedges and all along the ground

hovering on the wind for his prey to show
then a mighty swoop to the ground below
in between his talons he would hold is prey
then back in to the sky he would fly away

take it to his nest high up in the tree
a master of the sky a bird of prey is he

Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.

Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.

Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.

Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.

i like to watch the kestrel hover in the sky

with elegance and grace in the sky so high

looking for his prey something he can eat

then a mighty swoop he grabs it with his feet.


in between his talons with his grip so tight

holds on to his prey as he takes his flight.

back in to his nest to enjoy his treat

happy and content as he begins to eat.

i


a kestrel
in the agave
looks back at me

(when  or) if
an unstoppable fo
rce
struck

an unmovable
object-
what might be?

i play county
down
now,
f away..

ii

but leave me
soul!
leave me
my heart!!

o beauty
most
o eye of
god

fly like
a wild dream
we must
all

part..
life´s crust
is hard!
for a sweet love

in such delight
truest
sight

the kestrel in the
agave
wants another

but i am old and
rust
i have forgot

sundry jig..
i learned along
trout shores..

iii

my love is
baking bread

lily says
she is fed

up and stoops t
o
dead..

iv


head..
said
lily past

some
latent
blinded

heat
wait
last

one
man
band..

there was a little kestrel he was very sad
he couldnt see to hunt his eyesight it was bad
he couldnt see the rabbits or the mouse and vole
everything was blurred the poor little soul.

he met his friend the owl and told him of his plight
to see if could help and try to fix his sight
owl was very wise and knew what do
owl he made some glasses and restored his view.

kestrel he was happy he got back his sight
now he could hunt again wether day or night
he  could catch his prey when he began to soar
he could see again just like he could before

Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.

i love to watch the kestrel hover in the sky
waiting for his prey as it comes passing bye
then a mighty swoop faster than a plane
goes in for the **** then of he goes again

stretches out his talons as he grabs his prey
holding it so tightly as he flies away
back in to his nest high up in a tree
now he has his food time to have his tea

such a lovely creature i just love to see
high up in the sky flying wild and free
mother natures child as gentle as can be
just to watch the kestrel it means so much to me

Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.

i love to watch the kestrel a lovely bird is he
flying in the wild with his life so free
hovering overhead very calm and still
looking out for prey swooping for his ****.

swooping with such speed landing on his prey
with his mighty talons taking it away
high up in the sky to his nest above
just to watch the kestrel is something that i love

Away from the white Stork feathers
Often seemed to be gentle breeze
On Kans grasses
Superficial white clouds
Small dinghies on the river
To navigate the life

Far away on the bridge
The Silent movement of the Brahminy kite
Southern breeze blew
Tilting the tall grasses toward the North
Leak of the light fell into the Kans,
Into the Soft green grasses

Sunlit mingled with light fog
Seek heavenly feeling
Without the knowledge
The lips Stir of

Walking beside the river
Barefooted
In the air Kestrel's mystic music
The river running with full of chime

What are the forms of you!
Thee bind me with deception!
What a Strange tune!
What those thirsty words!

So that I draw your image
Moving away from the shadows
Soft light blended with the estuary
Away,
Little by little,
To see your face
Like the rig of Ship

Behind the path
A magical dream
Seems like a White Shirt  
That I had left in the Kans grasses

i looked across a field and saw a kestrel fly
hovering in a field that was near by
floating in the air on the summer breeze
he was very skillful. floated with such ease

then he seem to swoop down towards the ground
so very nice and quiet he didnt make a sound
when he came back up again.  he had caught a mouse
then he flew away. back to his kestrel house.

in the weeds where the dark bees
believe in dark dreams; savoring the frostbitten
nostalgia of wet mittens and smokestacks
hacking hearth-smog and dingy bitters
against clouds from a nameless
grudge... spawn from downcast holly.
where red berries
gasp for yellow
in the crotch of a wooden Fluegelhorn
sprouting from the branch
of a hedge without
Lips.

But a mouth full of snow.

II

in the weeds where the dark bees
believe in atoms of uncorrupted joy and pollen.
where they collude with silent majorities
and swindle sunlight for a spawnsong
anchored to the beak of a kestrel...
shrieking the maniacal disquiet
of a perfect moment.

rattling the hinges -

adored.

without
a key.

I am not afraid
To be real.
Just as long as I have Kestrel
To do it for me.
My alter-ego,
My twin,
My alias.
My name to most is unknown,
But they still know it.
They still know me,
*Kestrel

.
Light sparkles in the clover,
Yellow and blurr of bees
Are honeyed in the sun
And robins have come,
Yanking in the gasses,
So green is the moisten
Of the painting of the dew
And all is lolling in petrichor,
The soils running with slow
Time so shortly experienced,
Oils of wood permeate the air,
Lapping brooks bream into light,
The loft kestrel swirls in meadow
And chipmunks scuttle at base of tree,
Even the wind does freshly quiet, crisply,
There as a hug waiting for body and spirit,
Patches of white are disappearing, they know—
That one day we must all return, after winter snows.

And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
   And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
       The song-splayed sounds of light
   And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
       Brambled in bay, garland in violet
   When blades could ***** and not make bleed,

And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
   In that glow, once knighted we must serve
       Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
       And the vernal song sang lowly
   Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.

At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
   The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
       Brown as the yellowed beech
   Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
       Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
   I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.

Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing ****, heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
   And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
       Damp fires hailed the rising
   Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
       For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
   In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.

And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
   And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
       The song-splayed sounds of light
   And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
       Brambled in bay, garland in violet
   When blades could ***** and not make bleed,

And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
   In that glow, once knighted we must serve
       Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
       And the vernal song sang lowly
   Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.

At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
   The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
       Brown as the yellowed beech
   Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
       Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
   I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.

Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing ****, heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
   And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
       Damp fires hailed the rising
   Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
       For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
   In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.