The Ferrers

 
I  need to take myself off the lead -
to roam as if my home is as unimportant
as a dogs breed when they bound
then paw at my feet.

I need to take these soles
and smith them for walking,
to beat wings like pheasants
grown from chick,
aching in the hedgerows,
little concept, little sense,
but no one minds,
no, no one cares.

I need the flush in my velvet cheeks,
cob stained to the sleeves,
a tree that I claim
is the most Godly I've seen
yet to undress - full of sweat
to a shower quite warm,
inside a barn where nakedness
is the kiss from a cliff
regurgitated as words
that never capture the view.

I need Cellars and cows
and brisk sea air,
and no one else there
as I delve into that gravel
of me and emerge
further chiselled,
hollowed and whole,
all for a little space,
mining alone.