THIS STATION IN THE WOODS, HOW WAS IT BUILT?

The oak, that has to flourish to exist,
That has to stand and change like traffic lights,
Is coolly disregarded by the reeds
For whom twilight is mirrored more than shadowed;
Autumn in the water, not the leaves;
Dreams not always rigorously curtailed.

A cold dust underfoot, where the track was muddy,
The trees that were dark green, almost to black.

The mists have cleared, leaving a sense of height
Among the trees that are still shapely with leaves.