This is the land of straw in the road
Of early morning agricultural movements
Where frosted verges and tumble down fences
Overlook the horse boxes on their way to the races
This is the land where we make our own smoke clouds
In an otherwise clear blue sky; with no through roads
No easements, no public rights of way there is no lack of
Privacy; no room for openness of communication
Sat down among the brambles, by the overgrown gravestones
Sat high above the cornfields, just before the cutting
Sat inside in the public bar, with an eastern European beer
Sat outside, by the hot tub and the Jacuzzi
It might have been different with a full congregation
Each pew overflowing, each farmer with a chapel,
Each diocese with a sense of order, each bell rung
Each and every Sunday; rung vibrantly, with a sense of purpose
It might have been different without the degradation
Without the gradual decline, without the absence, the closure
The movement into the hands of conservation, without the choice
Or the lack of it, without the desire to find alternative solutions
