Possessions

Sand has the ants, clay ferny weeds for play

But what shall please the wind now the trees are away

War took on Witcombe steep?

It breathes there, and wonders at old  night roarings;

October time at all lights, and the new clearings

For memory are like to weep.

It was right for the beeches to stand over Witcombe reaches,

Until the wind roared and softened and died to sleep.

 

Ivor Gurney (1934)

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