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I am a great admirer of English poetry from the time of Chaucer up until the middle of the twentieth century when it appeared to lose its way. I love all aspects of this planet but are sometimes sad when I think of what we are doing to it.

Tuesday, 1 June 2021

 The Hillfort



Sun streams down from the blue bowl

On bracken and broken glass.


Older than age rise ramparts

that mutely hold memories.


Here lived those fierce, warlike men

that ruled with sword the soft plains


That hugged the sheltering sea.

From their windy battlements


No foe could creep in cunning 

stealth to catch the fertile kine


Or unload the golden grain

into heathen hands and mouths.


As watchful eagles stood those 

Lords with sword and axe upraised,


Ready to fight and die for 

the folk who farmed below.


Now their walls are grass and dust.

Where trod the mailed feet of men


Dully graze the silent sheep

on grass sprung from heroes’ blood,


And deeds that faintly call from 

pale shadows, soon forgotten


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