On Wheatsheaf Common
Vapour trails,
Crimson lines,
Left by two snails,
Creeping side by side,
Over an azure sky:
Thrusting jets,
Racing towards New Mexico,
Whilst I,
Walk dogs,
Across the frosted heath, below.Breath in clouds,
Their bodies entwined,
In apposite symmetries,
Exuberant limbs,
Crashing through shrouds,
Of cobwebs,
Jewellery untied,
Now limp on the bracken:
And high above me,
Jets pulse,
Racing to adventures,
That I,
Still long to know.
But this is my sphere,
Their sphere,
Your sphere,
Our sphere,
Blazoned with signs,
Around its periphery,
Signs telling me here,
Here, amongst these acres of the Common,
Here, trampling over fronds of broken bracken,
Here, surrounded by my landmarks and my loved-ones,
Here lies the very stuff of satisfaction,
Made to banish all my disaffection:
And I lift my eyes, seeing as I do,
That the trails have gone:
The sky is unbroken,
Jets now traversing
Some other's horizon:
And I throw a stick and smile,
.....As dogs race each other,
Across the good earth,
Turning damp with morning dew.
