I walk along the silent winter lane,
Hands in denim pockets, nostrils wide,
The clouds above begin to signal rain,
But still, I feel no need to be inside.
The branches curve a tunnel overhead,
Straining bark; my oak triumphal arch,
I dream about a history left for dead,
Hear echoes of the hobnailed boots on march.
If I just keep my vision to the way,
I could be walking through another age,
Rolling fields of flint and chalky clay,
My boots a print upon an Austen page...
A five speed hum slides by and breaks the spell,
It sounds to me like rural England's knell.
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