Soft lines of pure history worn;
all hard edges smoothed,
forgiven by the passing of time.
All judgements, victories and shame
covered in the reclamation of emerald green;
the triumphant essence of a beauty
lost and won over centuries,
long after man’s selfish ambition has died.
My blood shivers green,
recognising the gentle climbs
that echo my soul’s inclination.
It may be the illusion of smudged horizons,
and the not-so-distant shore
that soothes me;
or the gentle autumnal changes
that don’t hurry me;
the deep reliable evergreens
that cradle my natural reserve.
Is it merely the appreciation of a place
my eye has never seen?
Or the recognition of something
my heart has always known?
And the promise of the poetic gentleness
of an English summer….