We crossed meer at weir into the shires:
many have died on the borders beneath
these now mast winds of silt & sedge that
haunt allotments laid a ploughman's cage.

Day after day lessens in woodlandīs green
unwinding screen wearing not its anointed
crown that harvested charcoal, salt, brimstone
for ore. timber henge that fenced no fen down
for mead nor hemp & wicker by meerīs brook.

What spoils then have fallen to petty kings
proud & tyrannous, their wars & the ruin
ridings where no mill grinds beside the weir?*

* where no bird sings.
La Belle Dans Sans Merci. J Keats.

Copyright Robin Ouzman Hislop 2004
All rights reserved.