At first the trees were climbing trees;
the forests were alive with sound.
A country lad drank from the stream:
the river heaved the seasons round.
From secret fox-pad passageways
the towering clouds could not be seen,
but leafy, bird-thronged solitudes
taught natural, esoteric mysteries.
While summer reapers honed their scythes
old Willie Lot stood wreathed in smiles -
he crossed the Stour river twice
and lived at Flatford till he died.
John’s careless wonder then was such
that when he donned the ways of men
the young man turned to ink and brush
and strove to bring it back again.
