Before the sunset,
the rich greens on summer meadows
show out their wonder,
and then the twilight hour
calls in the cattle to rest,
and in sleepy barns
tired birds roost
where the nightingale’s song
music’s the moon.
My world is now traced
by a million sunsets
and my history darkened
by unfulfilled hopes.
There will be more dreamers
tomorrow
looking out on an English landscape.
Will they know the dread of war,
shadow lands of blood?
Will the, “Oh to be” April England
be seen through the poet’s eyes?
Who will tell of illusions lies?
Before the sunset tonight,
I am the watchman.
Lovely poem Chris.