This is my vision of a certain cast of English village (not so much in springtime).
March winds stir listless eddies,
fluke in tired gusts over thin pools,
flare through fields of stubble
then flag, exhausted, sour and wheezing
from the blowing day;
coughing, rubbing arthritic fingers,
cold as a church bell sounds the hours.
Spring will be late this year; no flowers yet
but Atlantic storms that clatter lychgates
accepting deliveries of frozen souls
for vicars to inter on high,
between rolling thunder and fists of sand
flung on coffin lids, the mourners know not why.
And the people will cry, will try
to understand a moment cast in stone,
to roam a land of memories,
of ways of talking, laughing inside,
almost faded from a pallet
of simple colours, now mere monochrome.
I cannot say what fills the black hearts
of those who would hurt me,
a man grown to be a child: they leave me
And the town, new in green,
wakes to sun-filled morning;
its streets in shadow,
its life lived behind open doors.