Friday, 27 December 2013

Wharram Percy

The muddy path on which we slipped
Our December descent from the road,
To the place where the trees moped
Over the stream,
By the wooden gate,
Where they dripped;
Was one on which we slowed.
It took us away
From the positive warmth
And the brightness of the day,
Whose faint,
Buff flush,
Of dry, dead grass
Upon the sun kissed wold
Hockney could n't have hoped
To recapture in
Purple paint.
It took us into the hush,
Beyond a deeper shade,
And the sense of perpetual cold.
And although we made another ascent
On the hill, on the opposite side
Still we went drearily further away
From the laughing and optimistic day,
To the green, grass clearing lumpy and wide,
Where the long deserted village lay,
And nothing was there save a crow.
There were excavation mounds
And demarcations to show
The former dwelling places.
And in the grounds
Surrounding the church,
abandoned now,
Was a board telling what had been learnt,
From the place,
And why and how.

No comments:

Post a Comment