Where the saplings come up In the belly of the road Nobody has travelled for so long I found the place you bear east And walk over the hills Until the sun goes down And come onto smoke and goats And the music of no socks For a gate they use the stead Of a tarnished brass bed The little winds that came up Like a child soaping a saddle We dream on Now night a cool moss On the undersides of the cold ground Keeps growing on the stones© Ginny Stanford