Wandering English Lanes
What is there left but each passing moment, past?
No -ism,
-ology, idea here to break our balanced Earthful connexion:
As
that butterfly there
is only
that butterfly-there,
Moving as all futures unplanned.
No goal to satiate as haste hungers so many humans.
For what is, is only that knowing of this -
A Time unmeasured in
duration,
Flowing as Sun above horizon there:
No hours as slope of hill
meets with river field,
Only Skylarks rising, since Spring, begun, is
fading
fast to Summer
And river flowing slows to greet in greeting that
bending bend, there.
Warm to humid here where hedge agrees with verge
And which, uncut, so
keeps our english-green:
And I am this all this and sighing sit with
almost tears.
One car - from what to where - speeding and then the
breeze
To seep in peaceful peace.
So sleep with Sun until walk
to
Inn to satiate a thirst.
What is there left then but wandering rencounter
Back where weird
beings seeding
merge themselves
With cars.
David Myatt
2455688.137