Have I Lost Touch With Courtly Nature Poem by Mark Heathcote

Willow-wandering in my mind
My red roots delve into the riverbed
And pan for flakes of gold refined
I drink the water that's always, fed
The source of which I'll not question
I'll not deny I sometimes quiver
Hibernate & pray to head downriver
I too don't like all that congestion.

It's enough to make your faith waver
Or query was I ever happy
Staying put have I done, myself a disfavour
Living in this jungle, that's so wide so vastly;
Have I lost touch with courtly nature
The briar rose, bee-glade meadows whisper
Interlocking bark—crisscrossing scripture
The skinny dipping kind—that adventure.