Canto II – A Little Village

“This wall stood long

Goat-grey, red-stained, kingdoms rose and fell,

Surviving storms; high curved arch crumbled.

Now moulders…”

-        The Ruin

This earth seldom entertains

the will of its smaller citizens – but

nor does it kill that which insists to fight;

it will bite the bricks and gnaw the

mortar and salivate the timber into slime

and shreds but it will not protest the fresh stone,

hot mortar, new dead shining oak –

do not mistake father time for his scythe

when he carries only illness and it is man

and man alone who murders. Yet this

smattering of stone quarters has seen much

of man and his doings – not, perhaps, the

wars and weddings and frenzied whisking

wheels which wrack and ruin the rest of

civilization; but it has tasted love and

hate and stood quietly by, resting in the lids

of dunnocks, to watch mothers tease their

children and fathers strike their sons and

daughters plant seed after desperate seed

into a cracked and dusky soil. So often

did these circles run, so fond were these

dust puppets of their rites and ritual, that

this earth hardly noticed the arrival of Jonson’s

protégé, with his book and his quill and his sugared 

dreams of God. The land was sobered and shaken

by concertos of lyric and ligament and found

its flowers weeping and its roots chuckling

at the flagrancy of his verse – a man with eyes

to see the liquid silks and unplucked roses

of youthful glee. When the wigged masses

traded tradition for mouths and blades, this son

of the ancients rebelled, and the bluebells wilted

to witness Herrick leave in scorn his chapelled home,

decrying his people’s primitivity. The earth shipped

many a lark to watch the poet’s progress,

and carried stanzas back to the grass on the backs

of feathers and fleas – until the poet,

succoured by life, traipsed home to die.

Though the slab atop his chthonic bed

lies lichened and empty, the earth remembers

the songs of Herrick and would forgive

his discontent for the chance to hear

one more melody. Today, the only noise

in that hallowed ground is the passing whine

of black-clogged cars – distraught

and abandoned, the land cries:

gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

before you are tarred and graved

into the common man’s motorway.

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