Glade 'It tastes of brick,' I slowly said to him As one by one my toes took root in stone. 'I fear this place,' I told her as it dimmed And rock replaced my fragile flesh and bone. A thousand summer sunshines fed the trees That in my grove gave shelter to us all. And all about us swarmed the golden bees, Gathering feast against the brutal fall. In winter, snow became our noble cloak, Purple in the fleeting dusk and dawn, And haunted by the lonesome raven's croak, The birds and mayflies to southern warmth now drawn. And is it better to last these years in form Of statue and stone, or rather to be warm? copyright 11 July 2000 by Earle B. 'Glas' Durboraw; Birmingham.