Making a Clearing "The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep.." (Robert Frost) These woods we stopped by, pushed in, parting brambles that hung on our stung hands. We smelt like a compost of leaves after hours of slow tramping until we lighted on the place. This was the spot to start the cutting back, clear enough space to see stars by, build a fire for bracken burning, pitch a tent. We circled slowly outwards clearing the undergrowth. I cut, you burnt, for days we breathed woodsmoke, wept continuous tears. So was it clearing we did in the wood that year or a quest for clarification? Whatever it was that space is now regrown. We slept little, we promised nothing.