Desert Oak.

Apon a muted wood a drizzle falls My mind is caught in raged walls of corkwood bark Whilst weeps the desert oak Through feathered leaves a solemn does wind my seeking heart. For thought had I to stand alone I had not thought apart I gave myself to the ragged range To the shifting sands To the gliding grace of birds But the light by which I saw these things was not mine but hers And she so far and moving further does draw the light away So that in the woods of darkness the shadows on me play.