Buzzard’s soaring like twinkling stars,
The blue sky shimmers around them.
As they drive above the passing cars,
Focused eyes scan the field’s hem;
They arch for a better view of the mounds,
Ascending the land’s cosmic stem;
Climbing high to escape the sounds,
To sing their own mewing bars.
Great Tit’s bound above us,
Volleying into a naked hedgerow.
They settle and watch what the human does,
As the wind buffets their perch to and fro.
They pay no mind to history,
They’re content to hover low.
Anglo-Saxon tales of glory,
Buried treasures and lost, scattered loves.
Melton and Woodbridge want feeding,
Two towns drinking deep from the Debden.
Spectators of an epoch which is now bleeding,
Frothing and bubbling to the surface again.
Two tourists, like us, looking for a place to park,
This ancient space now replenished with men.
The National Trust, Noah’s modern Ark,
Has branchless doves presenting tickets for redeeming.
The Lady’s house, white and emergent,
Peaks above the valley, like whale ribs.
Farmland, flora, fauna, and man, show resplendent
To the old, closer to the casket, and the young, to their cribs.
Clattering canes and sploshing hiking boots
Wear down the remains of enameled nibs.
Inside, feast upon the famished fruits
Of heritage funding well-spent.
A new viewing platform scaffolds the sky,
But firemen weren’t in mind for this drill tower,
Where death lies below and humanity must fly.
True history must seek shelter and cower,
In reflection of this century’s arrogance.
Just as a delicate butterfly can’t beat the shower,
Neither can time beat its own expanse.
In the river trough, the moorhens and coots continue to cry.
The Disinterested Philosopher Gets By 