Mike Keating - Buckholt Wood lyrics

Through Buckholt Wood near Gloucester runs a wall Dry-stone, ragged, old, but standing still. A mossy marshal bidding me respect the Former claims of rights upon the land. Crowded close and menaced by the trees that force their roots between the stones it mutters, Goes unheard, and trips me spitefully as I pa**. Across my path is freshly fallen mistletoe Lying on last year's leaves like last year's love On Painswick Beacon, a golf course now (though built a fortress keep by ancient man), an angry golfer cursing errant shots Strikes and scolds a bank. A possessive rite, Though the stone man, here in spirit through his walled defence maintains the beacon is his. He keeps the ball, Rejects the stranger. Towards Nettleton, where the planner draws A road, saying 'my decision, my right', The tunnellers look up from their plans, shout 'no, it is ours, for we have always lived here'. And on the wall, the balancing trees Fixing their roots, stretch to the sun saying 'We conquered. It's ours, and shall remain so'. The sun says nothing, but is content, knowing That in ages hence, as she grows old, she will consume all and all will be hers. Yet time will darken and scatter the sun Her fate to become part of new things undreamt. But look up from the grounded mistletoe And see a fresh bunch growing like this year's love. That belongs to all.