Acres Wild

I'll  make  love  to  you

in  all  good  places

under  black  mountains

in  open  spaces.

By  deep  brown  rivers

that  slither  darkly

through  far  marches

where  the  blue  hare  races.

Come  with  me  to  the  Winged  Isle  ---

northern  father's  western  child.

Where  the  dance  of  ages  is  playing  still

through  far  marches  of  acres  wild.

I'll  make  love  to  you

in  narrow  side  streets

with  shuttered  windows,

crumbling  chimneys.

Come  with  me  to  the  weary  town  ---

discos  silent  under  tiles

that  slide  from  roof-tops,  scatter  softly

on  concrete  marches  of  acres  wild.

By  red  bricks  pointed

with  cement  fingers

Flaking  damply  from  sagging  shoulders.

Come  with  me  to  the  Winged  Isle  ---

northern  father's  western  child.

Where  the  dance  of  ages  is  playing  still

through  far  marches  of  acres  wild.