Where is the bud of things unsaid
to blossom on the truth-telling tree?
Oh, its roots are withering; it may be dead,
there, by the dark stream of futility.
And on the tree of memory a blasted face,
in pattern of dead twigs where wood-ants roam;
and the woodpecker drills in to his taste;
and bark flakes from the white, wood bone.
The grove's unvisited behind its wire
of brambles; nettles throng between the boles;
yet flowers will spring in shade and may conspire
to deep about the tree roots their blue stoles.
We walk around, pass by where celandines
in sweet meadow breezes ruffle and shine.
....................
The John Renbourn is 'cos it has a 'going-home sort of spirit' (if you know what I mean, Piglet) - despite I'm no more Celtic than the basic 70% of my DNA which is common to England, and don't crave mountains so much. It's a great piece anyway.
