Bulaun in Roundwood.
I drove through Roundwood, a place I passed a 100 times before
But there is always something else there ,so it goes
This time I surprise even myself, I turn left toward the reservoir,
Park in a local’s gateway, near by a gnarled path.

A Victorian gate in emerald green invites,
I step over the stone stile into the wood.
The lake furrows and blows through the pines
But here it feels safe on the path floor.

A sign hammered into a tree warns
The walker that this is an area of sheep and lambs
And if a dog wanders onto the land it declares
It will be shot “There will be no exceptions here.”

It is flat, a bland path, weeds, trees, reeds,
The only relief is an empty boat on the shore,
A crumbling woodman’s shelter with a seat
And a sign pointing to the…

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