I lean back on the old seat
Which sits on a small plot of land
Donated by Emerson College
Into a trust for the local community
I am reminded of the song
Houses, houses, houses
Which I think was more about the Downs
But which would also fit, right now, right here
In the middle of the woods
Halfway to the horizon
A thin plume of smoke rises
Perhaps a Papal visit
Though more likely I would say
It is coppice work, the sort of task
Which appears to be happily undertaken
To gift the artist his charcoal, also his fuel
I could write of nettles
Also of the ubiquitous Russian Vine
Or whatever it is known as
In this salubrious part of England
I do have to tell you
Of flies, of wasps
For they are cutting short
My easy contemplation
