Spring Wood, Knutsford: My Place Of Play Poem by Mark Heathcote

Deaths, not a canyon you can walk tightrope? !
Travel around. Fly, above or pothole, under.
'Or look down the wrong end of a telescope'.
Death isn't a bed chamber of dreams, so err—

At times his stabbing voice gusts eerie chill screams
That howls and coils amidst arching emerald ferns.
About your two knees—be cautious my 'Daydreams'.
When, you walk in the woods, without concerns.

Remember those red spent copper-urn cartridges
You pocketed as this trespassing, wandering kid.
That gamekeeper warned you that dangers hid
Told us all to be gone! His,12 bore on haunches.

For me, it was just another woodland walk
Sure, what did I do? That was so, so wrong!
I guess I'll be much more vigilant. I'll stalk-
Him—stare death ere long, 'if it comes in the eye'.