As the touch of a shade completes the moisture of this green isle,
there is a resolvement too ancient to be denied. The blade leaning
to a culture that sprang from shielded boats that brought new pillage
into emerald folds of fields cultivated by toil’s slanted iron plough.
For long as has been disbanded, the course of the lost dividing lines
along dry-stoned walls kept the peasant from his bounty of owning
but a fraction for England’s time. It has always been as this way,
those who fought to please no one. The embrace of a clover child
who deserved a belief in a freedom, that was the motive cry behind
many a lost life thrust to the edge of an initial carved against a hilt.
Be still one, this England.
And as I drift within the disowned faces that display a glimmer
of icons stored below the surface, some things now are too bright
to hide. I chase along Henry The Eighth’s grounds to follow swift dear
graceful in the flourishment they still hold, catch an earthy glimpse
to be seen backwards to a feast. Wine doused over the chins of men
who knew the events that would decide their lineage to a vestment
which could be worn tightly wrapped. They stand as one crowd together
and carouse to the play within a play that is life’s conceit. Cheerful
echoing around the sturdy walls that show signs of the sporing moss
that will creep into their dreams, as they will retire to their night’s beds.
Be running, be swift England.
On the morrow the chase is now ongoing, stealth amongst the foliage
is disturbed by dry trodden leaves on leather. They give away the eager
archer of a hunt as he squints into view a fallow, the draw of a bow.
Eyes recognising the mist of breath on the morn, the tensioned tip poises.
Firm muscled flank with fur on end, smelling the sweat of an arrow
released that glances the running ground of dust. Scampers the foliage,
hooves aloft to the cover of tall spreading leafed dells that hide nature
in its wild protection. The hunter’s arm is relaxed under the nobility
that secures another quiver to be swung over his back, on he motions
through the tract relinquished of this stake out. Walks home as renewed.
As a land that recovers.
I walk over these same trails that left footprints in the oak centuries past,
push the branches away that could be cropped, but are better just left
intact. Slide down the stories that are the playing grounds of so many
innocent Britons to be nurtured in this progressive time. I’m awake now
and it is a pleasure to share in the beauty that has left impressions
for more generations than can be written in church vaults. Another name
to be added onto crisp paper that will not be folded easily to be unseen.
All my trying is upwards just to secure the exploration of Celtic pastures
before the white cliffs to the rocks below, as they lash the Viking remnants
of sorties that enter ashore. The Celt stands tall, breathes the wind.