Classic Poem

No one ever comes here—
Not since last April when the gamekeeper
Choked with lopt boughs this coppice-track
Scarcely distinguished from the black
Tangle of thorn, these autumn gusts
Are stripping cinder-bare,
For only here and there
A last leaf rusts.

So all along this track
Whose length I wander aimlessly and back
With leaf-clogged footsteps that fall dumb
The burdock-leaves hang in foul scum;
But oh those gummy burs are sly,
For brushing by a stem
My coat is thick with them
Withered and dry.

But glad am I to think
Those brown eyes saw in me a badger slink
Back to its earth or the high brush
Of fox dangle from bush to bush
Though none has for an age at least,
Spaniel nor gamekeeper
Nor any walking here,
Seen either beast.