Jubilee day

A day replete with pomp and circumstance
And I am out here, sitting on a stile
To watch the silage-makers grab their chance
To beat the rain and take this cut dry. While
The gilded ones glide down the Thames, this crew
Are flat out: that big harvester can fill
The trailers so fast, it’s all they can do
To keep ‘em coming; in their speed and skill
They almost match the martins, skimming low
Across the windrows. This, then, is my land
Of hope and glory: in that regal show
I see no sight, nor hear no sound so grand.
When passing pride and pageantry are gone,
The seasons’ timeless work will still go on.

 

Think I may have just blown my chance of being made Poet Laureate…N.

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8 thoughts on “Jubilee day

  1. I have decided, Nick, to appoint you to the post of Poet Laureate of Silage and Woods. I have no crown with which to justify my powers, of course. I’m an American, but if you cannot be the Laureate of England and its pomp and circumstance, then I have decided you should have a post that is about something that is truly important. I do not require you to accept this appointment. It is one of those things that is whether you will it or not. I am sure the silage will not object, nor will those monster John Deere tractors since they’re too busy being driven anyway. In the woods the birds will sing as they would if you were not appointed, so, to paraphrase Robert Browning, all’s right with the world, O Laureate, O Poet.

    • I’m honoured, Tom – and I accept, of course. Queens and princes are attended by all: my job, as I see it, is to give voice to the woods and fields, who have so much to tell us, and yet are ignored by those who have the msot to learn from listening to them. Thank you so much, my friend. N.

      • If poet laureates were made by truth
        and crowned by larks in fields of russet gold,
        then songs would not be sung by wild-eyed youth
        caught in the thrall of being young and bold,

        but by sweet water tumbling over stone
        into swift wings enlivening the sky
        and entering into a poet’s throne
        where words are songs found in a wind’s soft sigh.

  2. Why would you NOT think you’d be Poet Laureate–if my vote counted, you absolutely would be. I bow and salute and blow kisses from yonder field and sea.

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