How I long
To stay lost;
Off the chart
And out of time.
In some deep hollow of the hills
Among old oaks
Or way beyond
The low-tide line
Where none but the gulls and wild winds go.
Wilfully mislay myself;
Step off the road,
Rip the map into a thousand shreds
And watch them spin away.
Cut the line
And all the ties that bind.
No more words;
Just thoughts and birdsong, breeze and sun.
Nothing moving faster than the clouds,
No voices but the trees’ deliberations.
Only the shadows to show the hour;
Nothing to do, and all day to do it in.