No more walks in the wood. The trees have all been cut down. And where once they stood, not even a wagon rut appears along the path. No brushes taking over. No more walks in the wood. This is the aftermath of afternoons in the clover fields. Where we once made love, then wandered home together. Where the trees arched above. Where we made our own weather, when branches were the sky. Now they are gone for good, and you for ill, and I am only a passerby. We and the trees and the way, back from the fields of clay, lasted as long as we could. No more walks in the wood.