England slips past.
Over rivers and streams
and by glimpses of copses,
rabbits and foxes,
past empty platforms and orchards
we mix the wild flowers’ scent.
and we plunge into darkness,
and we awaken in misty forests of brick and cement
to glimpse choked back gardens,
The bustle of pardons,
and grind to a halt.
Stepping into the streets is a surprise
for those who watched England slip past -
And like memories of the dream last
what was there may be but lies.