Ian G. Winstanley

THE WOOD

What sanctuary was there in this place?
A wood, it was called
But in name only:
The trees long blown to matchwood
By a storm of blasted iron.
There was no shelter here.
They made their own,
Digging in the earth
To make canals
That filled with water,
Trod by booted feet into a slime
That clung and sucked.
It was all they had
To which to cling
For sanctuary.