Robert Frost Reconsidered
I was taking the dogs for a twilight stroll through the wood in the policies, which was very deep in snow indeed and more snow falling. Not a trace of any colour in anything, just black and white. I was remembering the versicles and responses which Dr Biswell and I used to chant when the winter compelled us out into the snow to bring round logs or cut down Christmas trees or whatever. “Whose woods these are I think I KNOW. His house is in the village THOUGH; He will not see me standing HERE, To watch his woods fill up with BEER”. A simpler Laird’s (anglice Squire’s) solo version struck me, now that Dr Biswell spends the winters in Manchester. “Whose woods these are I think I know: OURS.”