by David Bailey
See that stand of Beech on the hill there?
Some time back, I would run
Up to such a sight, in the doing,
Overrun the delicacy of the purple mist
That from a distant point seemed best,
Holding the copse in colour, delaying
November's flight towards winter's night.
Again that first shot of feeling catches me
Unawares, thought flying new sprung,
Putting a circle round the hill of Beech,
As renegade to me as greedy steps,
Returning nothing gained to mock my lust.
By slipping the grasp of the eager possessor,
A more distant view offers the gain to treasure.