Sliding from the station
in Stafford, past empty brick-built
passions from a faded, failing world:
they dreamed of industry
and power, forgetting people, history
and time – as all who seek to change
and build, must.
Faster through the sensual farms
of sleeping Staffordshire,
with woods and birds and village halls;
two walkers, and a dog.
The morning light on English fields
is gold and green today;
undisturbed, from where I sit,
by any passing train.
We are so good at self-deceit,
in England, where we kill
with ancient dreams and paper knives,
each brick-built works at will.
On my way to Liverpool, feeling wistful. Posted on Poets United.