Out of the Woods

FauxPoWriMo #7

Out of the Woods

I walk the stone-fields of home, watching industry turn alpine

And craft too many houses with too few backyards.

The old manor at the foot of the knotted Hampstead hill is gone.
What happened to the squatter, I will never know,

But I imagine him somewhere below the pavement,

Knocking on the sidewalk's underside

And begging for something I still cannot give.

I stomp and he knocks back,

Letting me know we are likewise entombed.

Past the squatter's lot, the bramble-lined paths we cut with sticks-turned-swords

Are only roads now.

They turn with an ease that trees refuse
And lead travelers too readily out of the woods.
As a child, I hoped I'd never find my way out.