I forgot the Deep Wood.
It used to be sewn into my bone.
Where fires burned for warmth.
The deep wood used to be my home.
I would drink from brooks of
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