This poem is from the anthology 'The Bread of Truth,' published by Rupert Hart-Davis
My garden is the wild
Sea of the grass. Her garden
Shelters between the walls.
The tide could break in;
I should be sorry for this.
There is peace there is a kind,
Though not the deep peace
Of wild places. Her care
For green life has enabled
The weak things to grow.
Despite my first love,
I take sometimes her hand,
Following straight paths
Between flowers, the nostril
Clogged with their thick scent.
The old softness of lawns
Persuading the slow foot
Leads to defection; the silence
Holds with its gloved hand
The wild hawk of the mind.
But not for long, windows,
Opening in the trees
Call the mind back
To its true eyrie; I stoop
Here only in play.
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