Robert Frost would not like it here.
Stone walls abound,
stone houses too, green lawns
And yet today we walked in Merdun Wood,
a ramble along muddy paths,
past ravens rising from the trees,
and rain-swollen streams,
past a woman with a large black dog
and a blank stare.
We follow the path less taken,
far from gardens or tea, or appointed times.
Out here, a stranger makes our breakfast,
familiar faces remain just out of reach.
We pass cold toast and jam
and dream of a field of wild bluebells,
growing on a forest slope,
mountains rising above,
and miles to go before we sleep.
Written in Edinburgh, second day in Scotland, cold rainy weather, jet lag, in a quiet room overlooking a proper garden, stone walls just high enough to hide the neighbors, apple tree heavily laden with fruit leans against the wall, leaves just hint at fall, barely turning red.