Rivers, meadows and long straight Roman roads,
or so the story goes.
Crows crow,
and sparrows make overgrown hedgerows home,
between the green hills that roll along,
with fields of rape seed yellow.
Sheep's moans and cow's groans,
echo round an old oak hollow.
A slow stream flows where no one knows to follow.
Flocks of scarecrows foes scratch around in land left fallow.
Still waters stink in a horse trough and a wheelbarrow.
Cracked cesspits seep shit,
down toward a lowland shallow.
The wind blows and moves grey rain clouds,
that seem to throb and billow,
and seem to make that singing sound,
to fear and to feel sorrow.
While creeping out but inward,
come old woodlands of tomorrow.