This, the quietest of places
Apart from the pigeons
The birdsong, the highway
And the railroad
This, the quietest of places
Is a final rest place
For the Oblate and Priest
Also for the two Sisters
Perhaps
The central mound
With its single oak
Amongst unkempt grasses
Is symbolic
But I could not say of what
For I am not a religious man
If you are able to believe me
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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
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Because the Picnic Box
Has sold out
Of strawberry ice cream
Would you rather be
Front of house
Or are you better off
Working in the back-kitchen
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The hotel does have ice cream
But the kitchen isn’t open
So I can’t have any
Also that might
Explain why
The coffee is lacking
What it takes, to reach
Those dizzy heights
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The blue sky is clouding over
Their words are not my words
Neither can I read their music
But I can close my eyes
I can feel the breeze
Wafting through my fine mop of hair
And I can feel for those not with me
That is my discipline
To think to write a letter
Yet not a letter for posterity
Instead a letter to hold on to love
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