his land

I smelt smoke on the wheezing of the wind when I awoke A pyre of memory, some fly-tipped treasury out there burning slow Dark soaked fields and the snuffling wet noses at my heels Suddenly hackles raise at the crackling of the blaze out there burning slow And sometimes I catch him With his axe in the shadow So secretive and private But I'm breathin' in his life when He's out there burning slow What a hoard, it should be wild, it should be where wanderers walk That hidden wood of green, the lake that he gatekeeps, yet I know not what for I would tread, build a fire and make the forest floor my bed I would forage for my meal, and in doing starts to heal, but instead All the time, I covet What he covers by the hedgerow So secretive and private But I'm breathing in his life when He's out there burning slow And sometimes I catch him With his axe in the shadow So secretive and private But I'm breathing in his life when He's out there burning slow