We are all african, but I don't feel it.
I come from the secret garden,
That lost orchard-England of petticoats and farthings,
Of starlings and strawberries.
We are all young, but I don't feel it.
I know the old forest in my bones, the boar and stags
Stages of clearing clearings.
I know the huts and houses, horses and hounds that bent to our iron and will and still I feel the steel of what we are
Man works by hand and works the land, I understand.
We are all now,
But I don't know it. All times are mine.