The marching band is present
So are the mowers of lawns
I could be in Mornington Crescent
Or where one sees the salmon spawns
Yet, from this quiet corner
I see the pile of garden waste
I am, as if the wayward mourner
Who left his past in clouds of haste
But I have the towering willow
And apple trees bearing fruit
My lovers head is on her pillow
And much the same I will follow suit
Not denying part, or all, of my creation
Not looking for ways in, nor ways out
It is my time alone, this nation
Where I ease away the seeds of doubt
