England, O my England,
once the crown of the rose and
that now stand here on my window sill
and shiver here in morning’s
gentle thrill, teased by what
is yet to come.
You see spread out before you still
lawns of green, divided nil –
spring time’s blossoms, their
petals fall to cover still
flashes of daisy and buttercups
people cover the ground –
sending them hushed into piles against
ankles buried deep
below the winter oak, fast asleep
till springtime works her way around.