This forest
unlike the myths of concrete times
contains the old,
the dank and breathed-in smell of Earth,
instinctifying air.

Here,
you have to reach the seas
before you die.
It's you and no technology
simply walking means
you'll never smell
the acridity of salt.

"Run, run",
the captains cry
from trains of saddled geese above
"find a stream, and catch us fish,
and we will tell you tales of seas---
they're gold, and green,
and full of cats
and everyone who's got there now
is fed by ghosts of porpoises
that dream of rocking floweries
and acting in the Scottish play."

"Run, run",
I curse myself,
wanting being first today,
an elephant in trunks.

Oh dear, I trip,
and lie for life,
and watch the forest melt to love
as I relax for weeks.
I see the sea beside me;
I turn and touch the salt.

But captains call for me to run;
there's no-one in the sky.

And captains plant synthetic wants
relaxing jars and run I should.

The forest grows,
and run I shall.

Oh, worshipped work,
my dream's to break the sea.