Wandering, wandering, hoping to find
The ring of mushrooms with the wet rind,
Cold to the touch, but bright with dew,
A green asylum from time’s range.
And finding instead the harsh ways
Of the ruinous wind and the clawed rain;
The storm’s hysteria in the bush;
The wild creatures and their pain.
by R. S. Thomas
from The Stones in the Fields (1946)