These Old Songs
Poem By Edwin Brock
grow in the mind,
their rhymes chiming endlessly
with the sound of feet walking
or rain falling or being taken up
by garden birds, one line at a time.
Landmarks, favourite stones,
reminders of moments
that only history makes important,
we hum them down to immortality
so that now they fence us in
with the faces of lost opportunities,
and all the moons and Junes that ever were
are meadow-larking above England.