Back Me Up To A Cloud.

Back me up to a cloud, lest I forget

The beauty of an English village street,

Of homes of handmade, rustic brick where yet

It’s possible to guess the date of neat

And tidy houses which  retain: a ridge

Which dips or waves, beneath an azure sky

Where a chimney sends a curl - softest smudge

Of momentary grey, and passers by

Acknowledge it as prayer, a hope sent out

Upon the English air, that all within 

Should be as if by Vesta blessed. Cream grout

Of old lime mortar well rubbed back, some thin

In well ruled staves and some slapped on to fill

The chinks which tired, idiosyncratic 

Bricks can’t help create.  Sagging softwood sill

Beneath a sash of aristocratic,

Classical design, whose strong bars, in line

Still along the upright plane, serve the role

Of temple pillars, changing light, define

The boundaries of each dark pane, control

The view through wavy, polished glass so those

Looking out onto the river see the scene

As through some older, wiser eye which knows

That mere sight is just enough to glean

The faintest understanding of the world.

Back me up to a cloud, visions fade now,

As each house has its lovely eyes gouged out,

Its soul seems to evaporate, and show

The blank, dead stare of modern man’s self doubt

In manufactured plastic, perfect glass,

In double layer, which makes the poor, cheap mask,

Yet more repulsive.  Now I cannot pass

Without a hopeless sigh, so huge the task -

Nigh on impossible, of stopping those

Who wish to flash new wealth at others, who

As ignorant as they themselves, dispose

Of every vestige of what’s passed.  The new,

The mass produced, the thing that shouts its price,

Is held as almost sacred, save that those

Who would eradicate each, last, sweet trace

Of our shared history, one must suppose,

Can’t comprehend what sacred means.  The dumb,

Who desecrate in ignorance each place

Which they pass through are mindless, numb,

To conservation’s call, unmoved by grace,

Without the faintest understanding of the world.