I. ApproachOut of Ladywell’s woodI come unstitched from brick,from the mild tyranny of pavement,and enter the dark breathing soil.The playpark lifts itself first—a gentle moundconcealing the reservoiras palms cup water,not to hoardbut to offer.Crows cry from the canopy—rough bellsmarking the threshold.Then the bridge,the pond’s shallow eye,and sometimes the kingfisher—blue syllable of flame,so stillit tutors silence.Here…