On these five o'clock mornings, when it's too early to stir the house,

I've been thinking of you,

 

Wondering if you'll come home.

 

Waking underground, I know you cannot see the sky

from where compassionless fire falls.

 

Don't worry, things here are the same as ever they were,

although you will be different

 

when you unpack your secrets in the quiet space of home.

 

When again you see the light of Southern Skies, they will still be

far from "The Sunlit Uplands"

 

another Son of England will take your place.

 

These five o'clock mornings will be for someone else

to question the loss of days,

 

to think of words that will never be spoken or heard.