The cross roads at Brent Eligh,
the staggered setting sun,
chimes of dark bells
call from farmyard hells,
as the sons of the harvest
fall homeward.
I linger by that clover field,
and watch the thistledown
drift like spirits leaving this world.
What now?
Where is the tune of tomorrow going to play?
Oh handsome moon
you know all is yesterday.
Old man cleans his boots
on the doorstep of his tied cottage,
cows cry for their young,
swallows dance the circus of the sky,
and the inner voice shouts;
‘What am I’?
Under this universe of vast innocence,
I discard my thoughts.
My friends the stars
whisper secrets,
the wind caresses my face,
through fields of rolling contentment
I trace, the paths
of my forefathers.
Let me know you at my end;
let that familiar wind
carry my soul
out onto the grace
of the Suffolk Wind.