1 

in tight lines 

a dozen houses 

line the winter wheat – 

already: 

frail bungalows 

with front lawns, 

at the village edge; 

homes, already, 

transitory as inns, 

and clamped 

to a new access road 

that slices 

though the down. 

diggers have quarried 

the chalk -  

upended it; 

torn out the clay beneath -

heavy, dark,

greasy as abattoir meat

embedded with flints,

clewing

to a long-departed sea.

in a web of cul-de-sacs,

of silent gardens

of chipboard walls

history is being forgotten;

the land is practicing

how to die.

SNODLAND, MARCH 1977

2

clouds clog

the river’s fallen level -

a dry day

at the furthest edge

of summer;

at the month’s

almost-final,

almost-end-point,

flat and still;

indestructible.

hay,

cropped in silent meadows

rests in long gold lines;

the battles to be fought

are far away;

nothing is corruptible;

now is all there is.

THE RIVER BEULT, AUGUST 1977

3

wade

in the corn waves

undisturbed;

come home -

there is no toll;

the hip-grass

will conceal and recall;

fearing no fall,

the dusty green

will restore the world,

its marks, its scars - 

bring it

to a field of sun -

to this home,

crushed out

within it.

NEAR CRANBROOK, AUGUST 1977

4

of course

there are grander things

than this Victorian rebuilding

of medieval stone;

but not for me.

for eight years i have been

its steadfast visitor,
 

a pilgrim of sorts,

returning to a place

where nothing

is urgent;

where custom points, 

like transepts,

to the enfolding

fields and woods

first written in Doomsday.

THE CHURCH OF ALL SAINTS, BIRLING, MARCH 1978

5

amongst the few remaining leaves

of last year’s autumn,

daffodils shake

in a slight breeze;

they lord it over the wilderness -

the stone angel

drowsy under moss;

the mausoleums,

rectangular, preoccupied;

the crooked tombstones,

dreaming of places

other than this;

the sleeping columbaria

spread between

the shot green shavings

of recent trees - 

defiant,

redeeming.

BIRLING CHURCHYARD, MARCH 1978

6

winter rain

has darkened

the hayrick’s sides;

now

a nine-hour sun

expands upon it,

restores it,

saves it

with lengthening days;

returning all.

SNODLAND, MAY 1978

7

only

on the road

between the trees;

only

on Birling Hill

do i evade

the day;

slip the sun

under leaf;

freewheel

on the scarp,

believing only

in Cistern Wood and Coney Shaw,

in Stonebridge and Ley;

in the fields that flit by,

worshipping only

the swift 

dark woods,

the down’s allegiant

oak, and beech, and chestnut - 

saved by speed

each time

i turn into

the ceaseless haze.

ON BIRLING HILL, JUNE 1978

8

now

the cool weaves

white;

the high day

ends;

the ridge

simplifies;

the downland

tightens –

a narrow gate,

darkly green -

trees open

to an ageless sky;

a time for nightjars, nightingales, sparrowhawks;

and i am

washed away.

TROTTISCLIFFE, JUNE 1978

9

this is a road

for sunday walkers,

wanderlusters

who go just so far,

their communion curtailed

by an absence of magic,

fitted in

between reading the papers

and lunch,

as is customary now.

THE SNODLAND TO BIRLING ROAD, JUNE 1978

10

clouds shift;

over the hill

the moon swells,

the grass,

dark this side,

lights up -

ignites a sudden thoroughfare

showing me the way,

night by night,

as i cycle sections

of the old pilgrim road,

all difficulties shattered,

past fields of clover, cowslip;

past Blackbusshe, Badgells Wood,

past the Battle of Britain cross,