FOR THOMAS BEWICK
In your precious art you are raised
delicate species fresh, alive
with every searching niche of blade,
on metalled tints of bone
in flesh, conceived.
Today, our clear eye can review
that aggregate of animals
and spreading plants which grew;
now your thoughts to Cherryburn
are our adoption.
Through sludge of field flung back
from my drag of parting feet,
crossing matted rural lands
you swept in light and shade,
a lock of trees
inside a border to engrave.