— this is England — 

Photo by Milind Ruparel on Unsplash

Acrid November brought to mind in late July:
That lack of light, that all day twilight!
How can anybody live through such visual misery
without declining into snake, or toad?
Even the trees have no leaves,
cold will rise to infect our eyes!

We are, unfortunately, not Italian, nor Etruscan,
just woolly-backed mammoth barbarian sorcerers
of a certain druidical disposition: visceral, celtic
bruised, damaged, rag and bone men of the heart,
who can rise to the cloud-topping disquisitions
of an unfettered poetry brought to the world
in strictest measure.

So, back to gloomy November weather:
lock-ins at the boozers and the losers:
the mead imbibers, the wine guzzlers, 
the laudanum tipplers of Stratford atte Bowe,
and elsewhere, in these foggy isles of our own forsaking.

For what is past is prologue to the future,
and all this misty realm will be full of sweet airs,
perforated by the drift of lazy, gaudy butterflies,
creatures who give delight and hurt not.

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