A clear glass vase, holding blue flowers
With bright sunlight catching
The cut free stems in the water
Six square-panes make up
This wood framed window with
Shadows and smears of rain
That looks out to the old
English oaks in
Capability
Brown's middle and far distance
I might imagine, that right now
You
Simena, are sat beside
Michael Gorban’s painting
Hanging in the cottage parlour
I might be more presumptuous
And think that the stains
Are from your tears, as
You write your farewell letter
That these thoughts still cross
My mind, and that young people
Still learn to recite war poetry
That, in any way
One’s imagination alone
Would be able to raise and dwell
On such a thing, is wondrous enough
