From England

A three-part postcard.

Warwick

(20th of November, 2024)

We woke to softly falling snow;
Little of its magic had we known.
We went by rail through countryside,
Northwards through an England painted white.
A castle there we sought to see,
Built where once the Noldor, young and free,
Had sung and called it Mindon Gwar --
Warwick now, where elves no longer are.
Yet in the magic of the snow,
Falling flakes which often seek to show
A world imbued with every hue,
Cased in white, is briefly more than true.
Just briefly then, we trembling saw:
Elven England, blistering, cold, no more.

The Turf Tavern

(26th of November, 2024)

Mulled wine will make us mull,
As we linger in this lull
Of conversation at this table
For as long as we are able.

Let us catch a falling fable
As we wait to feed our navel.
Let us listen to the babble
As we rest within the ravel.

And when the duck arrives,
And the pie and crispy fries,
We'll set to and have our fill,
And let the timer then fall still.

With wine again soon after
Let us lift a little laughter,
But not so much that we unwind
The fragile stillness of our minds.

St Edmund Hall Library

(16th of November, 2024)

A graveyard grew a library.
I'm not sure I've seen a richer
Symbol of a glorious death.
Oxford's mostly ruins, crucified,
Only books on shelves are left.

I've heard that in three days,
Or in a trilogy of cycles,
A page will be reborn
And the English blood, black as ink,
Will run again that morn.

Oh, what I'd give to see that day,
Oh, humble, sombre Sexton.
Let me be set all six feet underneath,
That I might rest and rise again,
Hallowed by a holly, Anglo-Saxon wreath.

Or let me be that page,
Resting on a dusty shelf,
Taken up and read, re-birthed,
To dwell then in a poet's heart,
On his return from the ends of the earth.