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Whose woods these are I’m sure I’ll never know.
They say the money came from selling snow,
twice-laundered in the Caymans or Belize,
or other haven in the Caribbees.

These woods are nothing next to his abodes,
I hear, in Paris, London’s best postcodes,
and in New York, those new, forbidding spires
that spook midtown like bleak, extinguished pyres.

How far away the days when snow was snow,
horse was a horse, and blow perhaps the blow
said horse might need to speed along a track
with miles to go and winter on its back.

These woods will never be as dark and deep
as rooms so empty they make doormen weep,
the vacant spaces fortunes put to sleep,
the vacant spaces fortunes put to sleep.