We have been here
For longer than most of us fear.
The utilitarian at-ness of things
Is not that which they are.
The windswept heath in November
Rain the evening before
Patches of fresh green grass
And the yellows and browns.
The land, perceived,
As it must be to be
Understood, Erotic spirit
Speaking an old familiar theme.
This is no metaphor.
The Spirit, is it good?
No, not entirely good.
But neither am I good.
Powerful, but not like a father or mother.
A lascivious female who is closer
Than close, wishing and working for joy.
How can we say what the bird perceives?
What the obverse of the terror of death?
The Spirt of Nature is whispering love:-
'Your mind is a sword as effective
As any in the latter age of iron.
I find that you are beautiful.
Despite all
You are one of chosen
Because I love you I will make you strong.
I will bring you your desire'.

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