We have come to your wilderness
For healing
For we are sick of accountants’ analysis
And the tensions of tabloid terrors.
Within your ancient, oh so ancient
Dumb stillness
We recognise our deepest need
And cling like heather
To your bosomed slopes
Rooting ourselves
Into your waiting skin –
While in the valley
Unconscious men drive blinkered on
Counting the units
Of their measured roads.