I'll make love to you
in all good places
under black mountains
in open spaces.
By deep brown rivers
that slither darkly
through far marches
where the blue hare races. [bad word] with me to the Winged Isle ---
northern father's western child.
Where the dance of ages is playing still
through far marches of acres wild.

I'll make love to you
in narrow side streets
with shuttered windows, [bad word] chimneys. [bad word] with me to the weary town ---
discos silent under tiles
that slide from roof-tops, scatter softly
on concrete marches of acres wild.

By red bricks pointed
with cement fingers
Flaking damply from sagging shoulders. [bad word] with me to the Winged Isle ---
northern father's western child.
Where the dance of ages is playing still
through far marches of acres wild.