Bend of a lane,bow of a hill,
The why of fields and hedges,fractal,multifarious,
The dogwood days never seen again,
The eachness of counties,self-same and distinct...
This pollen in the air is the placenames
Ancestors etched in wood and stone;
These boundaries have held,will hold,
Parishes trodden out and breathed on,
Vills,hundreds and wapentakes,
Shadow-shire of beaver,wolf and aurochs,
Where I coppice my rooted tongue.
Nightingale woods of spring
Laugh oxlips and anemones into thickened air,
Thousand-year light and shade
Chequered into a woodman’s sigh.
Frith and spinney, copse and thicket
Weave me into their etymology;
I reave the geometrical land,
Axing through mind-acres gladly.
Strange country that I thought I knew!
Uncanny tree I fruit from!
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