Buckholt Wood by Mike Keating Lyrics
Through Buckholt Wood near Gloucester runs a wall
Dry-stone, ragged, old, but standing still.
A mossy marshal bidding me respect the
Former claims of rights upon the land.
Crowded close and menaced by the trees
that force their roots between the stones it mutters,
Goes unheard, and trips me spitefully as I pass.
Across my path is freshly fallen mistletoe
Lying on last year's leaves like last year's love
On Painswick Beacon, a golf course now (though
built a fortress keep by ancient man),
an angry golfer cursing errant shots
Strikes and scolds a bank. A possessive rite,
Though the stone man, here in spirit through his
walled defence maintains the beacon is his.
He keeps the ball,
Rejects the stranger.
Towards Nettleton, where the planner draws
A road, saying 'my decision, my right',
The tunnellers look up from their plans, shout
'no, it is ours, for we have always lived here'.
And on the wall, the balancing trees
Fixing their roots, stretch to the sun saying
'We conquered. It's ours, and shall remain so'.
The sun says nothing, but is content, knowing
That in ages hence, as she grows old,
she will consume all and all will be hers.
Yet time will darken and scatter the sun
Her fate to become part of new things undreamt.
But look up from the grounded mistletoe
And see a fresh bunch growing like this year's love.
That belongs to all.
Dry-stone, ragged, old, but standing still.
A mossy marshal bidding me respect the
Former claims of rights upon the land.
Crowded close and menaced by the trees
that force their roots between the stones it mutters,
Goes unheard, and trips me spitefully as I pass.
Across my path is freshly fallen mistletoe
Lying on last year's leaves like last year's love
On Painswick Beacon, a golf course now (though
built a fortress keep by ancient man),
an angry golfer cursing errant shots
Strikes and scolds a bank. A possessive rite,
Though the stone man, here in spirit through his
walled defence maintains the beacon is his.
He keeps the ball,
Rejects the stranger.
Towards Nettleton, where the planner draws
A road, saying 'my decision, my right',
The tunnellers look up from their plans, shout
'no, it is ours, for we have always lived here'.
And on the wall, the balancing trees
Fixing their roots, stretch to the sun saying
'We conquered. It's ours, and shall remain so'.
The sun says nothing, but is content, knowing
That in ages hence, as she grows old,
she will consume all and all will be hers.
Yet time will darken and scatter the sun
Her fate to become part of new things undreamt.
But look up from the grounded mistletoe
And see a fresh bunch growing like this year's love.
That belongs to all.