...Where O where will wildness go
Now the sunshine turns to snow
The cold winds blow my spirits low
– The high winds call my spirit back
To flow and run – and ebb, for Jack
Of clear direction. Alone I walk
Through empty streets, I talk
To no-one – none else abroad
– My pumping heart awaits the hoard
Must needs reward me at the next hilltop
But mounted to the crest I stop
Aghast-no promised land in harvest there
Instead a maze of prostrate trees, picked bare
– Derelict dwellings – Where went the crop?
– A labyrinth of ruined fields that tear
My hope out
– Unidentified am I
– A last seed blown nowhere by the wintry sky