Clouds streaming like armies from castle walls
dissolving into still futile beauty
of a sunset, raw red like war, westward.
They will never return.
Unlike this sunset, which will come again,
and war fall, like rotting pears on the quiet lawns
of middle England, unprepared once more.
And still the fortress stands.
This evening was still and beautiful in Warwick, with storm clouds receding and the sun emerging for the first time in a few days. The days are longer now, and the sun doesn’t set till round 9pm. The first lines of this poem came to me while playing tennis, and watching the clouds (I’m not a very serious player) and the rest is a slightly random meditation. I have no particular premonitions of conflict, but the future is a safely long time. The English are rarely prepared for change, I feel.