In the old days autumn would clang a gong
Of colour between Cranham and the Birdlip curve,
Hollow brass sustained the woods' noble swerve
And the air itself stood against music as crystal strong.
So it may be so still, but the body now
No longer takes in distance as slow thought.
Old man's beard may be tangled in black hedges caught,
But the body hurt, spirit is hindered and slow,
And evil hurts me past my maker's right.