Lying Under An Oak Poem by james watkin
Lying Under An Oak
Forgetfulness is its own asylum.
With drowsy calm I go therein.
Concerns of the day, like mental traffic
From this mental hideaway
Out of close inquiry spin;
And detach, as from dismay.
Dreamfulness, its own shelter down through
Whose bright delusional coverage
Adrift on no wind, nor severed in twain
No time falls whereby am soaked
With self-reproach, no image
Loathed, by dark prospects provoked.
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12/20/2025 9:10:33 AM # 1.0.0
