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 the narrow side streets

with shuttered windows,

crumbling chimneys.

Come with me to the weary town

Discos silent under tiles

that slide from roof-tops, scattersoftly

on concrete marches of Acres Wild.

By red bricks pointed

with cement fingers

Flaking damply from sagging shouders.

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.