Within the chapel walls from time the lovers lay,
and watched as by the first sung sun elixir sprung to new blown life.
Within these walls they carved their names
and 'round them carved the shapes of trees on hill and rippled stream.
Within this garden we moved with blade and saw,
to write upon one field a sacrifice.
Within this field it had been decided that oak and rowan might live but that all other trees must be denied. So we fell among the holly, the beech, the birch, thorn and ash, sparing none. Throughout this winter's day we worked, while bramble and bracken pleaded round our feet, and oversky the grey crowned hills shed tears. These tears that bound the air to form; the sons and daughters small; whose sap we shed amongst the soil.
Within this daze I dreamt a tree who said:
I am one who by your words you call me beech.
In my bark you carve your lovers' names.
My bark you took and now you name it book.
But memory forgets from where it came.
A poet once among called your act profane.
And wounding not with words of lovers.
Professed to wound me only with his words for me.
To him I write my voice with sap and leaf.
I write myself across the sky.
Taking letters form the air.
Taking letters from the soil.
The letters you call water, I take
and write them into fountain.
I combine the letters from the air and earth.
and write them into sweetest sap.
I write them into my form
and being me they write themselves into themselves again.
Becoming leaves they drop into the earth again.