in between the days of waiting

In between the days
of waiting,
the car parked
by the open field,
The clouds
in quiet procession
Rising,
And in my mind
the promised moment
of deliverance,
yields.

How in englands dreaming
Do we wander?
What of blake,
of milton,
Of paradises
lost and found?
Of Shakespeare
in the wood
Around the corner?
Ariel shadowing
the sullen river round?
Theseus
presiding over pastures
feasting,
Falstaff,
Fat old hamlet
midnight-chiming now,
Time’s sweet
sad river
Slowly
slowly running,
Slowly,
slowly
Running down.

Too soon our summer
Turns away,
Like cattle
in the august rain,
Home again to
grey sheds
And piped music,
To The milking machines
Of easy
habituation,
Relieving us of the
Burden of our hopes,
The high soaring
Chorales of our
Lost Summer dreams.

If england survives at all
Its only in the hedgerows,
where the lonely
dispossessed
Huddle together,
Time-lost,
Ghost-ridden,
A stray arrow
From some
Distant conflict shot.
Restless,
I shelter with you,
homeless in my spirit,
and watch as the
old white horse
Quietly cropping,
Walks
the match-abandoned
Cricket pitch.

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