I forgot the Deep Wood.
It used to be sewn into my bone.
Where fires burned for warmth.
Light was made for reading and work.
The deep wood used to be my home.
I would drink from brooks of song,
but as modern man from the tap.
Where everyday chores were craft.
My modern world is immediate,
a disposable waste a glimmering trap
What is this Deep Wood I seek?
Not a place of location or crest.
No, an inner reality painting all.
The wind in the deep wood is more.
I am there with the Kings still moving chest