one very focused--on the pain--and usually excludes a wider vision) is an echo of the narrow horizon that is the little wood with its trees. The pleasure of owning a piece of woodland; to preserve it from development or assault from the slashers and burners, and to add it to one's own home as an annex of sorts must be a joy.
from Frieda Hughes: The Times: Monday Poem: Taking stock of the wood
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