Moor often than afore

I sloe and the days stretch;

foot tarries, hand, rushes knot

but halts down some

wrongly dubbed dead end track.

It is not rot,

nor bogging down

this fellow, travellin’

within some folds, mounds

of the goddess, or indeed man.

It’s what I add, ore.

It’s finding me in thyme

and says bee busy,

to teach your soul to paddle,

or leap upstream easy.

The beckoning broad swathe,

good neighbours,

spiritus animus enfold me

in the gentle clasp of golden bonds,

a maiden hazel, green man inclining.