I had not expected
To see so much hawthorn
Or for it to grow so very tall
But I suppose it is alongside the river
Elsewhere the ground is bone dry
Harder than a rolled cricket wicket
With all the cracks of five days play
Battered by bat and ball, by players and weather
The willow clones
Are cloned everywhere
Their fresh shoots shooting skyward
With the freedom of gay abandon
A slow train. disappears
Beyond an horizon of yet more hawthorn
I expect that it is heading
For the parkway station
Once again I am playing truant
On this occasion from None
Which, once upon a time
I thought meant no service
How wrong could I be
How many times, so so many times
Have I let wrong lead me on
Yet here I am, alive, and writing
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