As if it guards our village green
The morning steps out of the roke,
Our village as it has always been,
As old as the great village oak
To every inch of earth a cloak.
Our meadow is a mummer flood,
Its madder stream the village blood
That whispers to the waiting day
As titian leaves descend to play.
The mill is wheeling to the sun,
Its shadows paint the fallow lane,
The labours of the day begun.
The thatcher gathers up his reed.
The mouse collects and carries seed.
But branches nip the window pane
To wake the idlers of the inn
Inhaling dregs of port and lard
Just as the gentle sun looks in.
The gentle sun soft beams arrays
Above the ancient church and yard,
Our foundlings of forgotten days.
It is here our Parson often goes,
For, more than anyone, he knows
Time outlives the rocks and trees.
Time strolls up to the lich at ease
And every place set in between
With all as it has always been.
Leave a Reply