Compass

Compass

Do you think the bracken
felt her fingers,
bit the bones
of Summer clean,
that blinding light
of wintered sun
was bestowed
by lids of God?
Do you tumble slow
up Gallants Bower
hillscapes drenched
in refined war,
trade chests
for pursed mens penance,
watch tourists tumble 'long
mouth's sore ridge?
Do you long for birds
who soar on high,
over castles,
shaded sails,
between beech caped woods,
sod beneath sealed
in abandoned leaves?
Their naked mothers
quiver about you.
Do you let yourself foam,
lichen bleached,
rope coloured,
wilderness paved?
Do you contort
into oak bough arms,
let peace drown
in your sinew?