Across this land,
Ever dear,
Pretty England....
The great scar proceeds;
The slug trail of cement
And ashen grey,
Relentless in its needs;
Across little rivulets,
Clear and quiet,
Thick, lush meadows
Where golden cows
Munch their fill,
Only to be made ill
With leaden hay....
Across dulcet woods
Where fragile trees
Stretch in adoration
To the sky..
And protect
The bluebells
And wood anemones,
Far below....
That can never
Struggle up and grow,
But die...
As mighty juggernauts
And endless hordes
Of cars
Pass this way.....
Across dales, downs
And valleys rich,
Where not now a single
Stitch of herbage
Can close withstand
Long the wild wind and noise
Of traffic;
Sears the tender tendrils
And young green shoots
Of England;
Her ancient birth right;
Solid oak and stone, Parish church, pub,
And where old, sacred
Yews once stood;
Where bronzed men
In smocks
Bit hard against clay pipes,
And recounted proud
Tales of battles long ago...
And peace;
Where children skipped
And played around
May poles fair;
And women cried
In labour and in cheer,
As church bells
Sang loud their peels
Of happy union;
Of grief;
Or accursed war,
And its atonement.....
Passed gravestones,
Lichen clad,
High above,
Where skylarks
Now never dare
To fly,
As torrid lorries,
Thunder by;
The butterflies
And bumblebees
That could thrive,
That may have flourished
Were the fields alive
With orchids,
Buttercups and bugle
Bright;
Of calm mushrooms
That glisten
Amidst the cool light
Of many a moonlit
Autumn night;
Waft by the silken
Wings of moth and owl,
Above the badger’s angry growl.
If this great gift
Did once prevail
And might still,
Let it be cherished...
Or become a memory...
Lost...as dulcimer threads
Carried on the winds of time...
That no one ever knew...
Existed.
