yellow fields of rape aflame with outrageous beauty poison the
- A pall of
thick brown molasses hangs over London;
- more subtly
over other places;
free their drivers' sharp competitive
- urges to be
first in the pack - even mine!
- No one seems
to see the delicate beauty of Britain's
immigrants: the soft, brown eyes searching for
- "The center
cannot hold," said Yeats. It seems true.
- And yet ...
and yet ...
Harrington Gardens, near the Gloucester Road tube stop,
John's funky St. Simeon Hotel
welcomes me home to a tall, skinny four-bed room I can still
watery tea warms my early morning stomach.
hospitality in countless places still extends the
- warm open
arms that keep alive my grateful promise to
- The Tingle
Stone, ancient Gloucestershire rebirther,
responds to my joyous touch as I lean, blissful, against its
gnarled, sunlit side;
- The magic of
the Tor still lives on in its dark and water-loud hillside caves,
inhabited now by shaggy young soothsayers,
- And on its
top, supports a timeless ten-foot beacon
- lit now by
one of the country folk, at sunset's ending,
- Flaming out
over the dark valley below,
- to the sound
of our clapping, on the night of VE Day --
- Oxford and
Cambridge Universities still work their special early morning
magic amid their dreaming spires;
after all, it might be true that
always be an England.
- I do hope
- It may even
be that the Countenance Divine
- Never did
shine forth upon those clouded hills,
Blake's fervent hopes and poetic eloquence;
something of that shining holiness still lives on
- among her
to "On Glastonbury Tor"
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