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