On a hilltop, the Suffolk laborer works the harvest without a question why?
The rich man’s children walk over the unmarked graves of plague families.
A storybook picture on a pure unadulterated English landscape, I am just believing, I am the picture.
“Stuff that dreams are made on”, flesh built on bones of sin with no talk of an “English Heaven.”
Bells ring out from the chapel lowlands, the laborer looks up and moans to himself; ‘Chapel people hah!’
All life asleep, not seeing, how wonderful those long hours of reclining in hot summers must have been for the unmindful?
The unbroken glory of England’s rainbow, set against a seascape of imaginings.
Oh for a whiff of that English air of times hid, the rich man in his castle, the poor man at the gate, when no one hung their heads in shame, because shame was to come tomorrow, like in Eden’s garden, the time to look back and think has gone, with that last long English summer.