Under the covers, inside the walls,
The wind shuffles in from the West,
Rabbits potter in the grass,
And the pheasants lay down to rest.
This is the country,
As it is in itself,
Its shares in green hills,
Space and air its wealth.
The pipes are ticking again,
As we clear away the debris,
Revealing the front door,
And its old, simple majesty.
The old cottage and the grand house,
Mixed, melded and clinging on,
Against the turning,
Against the winter’s song.
I have seen the fight,
The floor and the damp,
I have seen the darkness,
But I read by my bedside lamp.
Firelight leaps upon us,
Primordial and true,
It’s what we are,
Not humans blue.
Return to Plenmeller,
Where the sheep are safe,
And we the sheep follow the shepherd,
Where powerless are the governor and the wraith.
