Bucolic Pietas Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I need to get out of here
As fast as I can,
And surround myself with the personifications
Of nature in the tallest of forests
Innocent of patriarchal gravity,
Or mothering worries and caveats:
For, if I followed the tresses and the bounding
Play of my hounds, I might find an open meadow,
Like a theatre or green mouth,
And lay back inside that sloping throat, as
The clouds passed like insouciant thoughts
Where there were no ghosts bigger than my hand,
Where truth ambled with happy lovers perpetually
Unjaded by the higher catastrophes of people
Bound by obligations and savage business habits.