John Clare knew and understood
the wonder of the mundane,
how nothing remains the same.

Glint, glance, gaze, smile,
the optimism of
that pastoral green mile.

You saw and smelt
a myriad of wild flowers 
sway in the breeze.

You looked up at the swirling clouds, 
a grey-blue reflection of your unassumed eternity
and then you wrote your poetry
unmindful of the side long glance 
of ‘society’ that sought to hurt your heart.

Your untold gentility of manner
passing glances, subtle variations in tone; 
your secret wish not to be left alone.

A sadly beautiful elegy for an England that I loved with all my heart.