The Imperium of the Green Age: ( July, 2025)
In this bright green age, the light stays long against the heavy hill, Suspended in the throat of night where fields are warm and water still; Below the ridge, the motorway hums low with distant, restless freight, A steady drone that cuts the peace beside the rusting tractor gate, While shadow-mottled cattle graze beside the hidden, winding rill.
In this rich green age, the gold creeps slow across the heavy wheat, And all the secrets summer holds are ripening in the dust and heat; Above the ancient chalk and flint, a vapour trail divides the blue, As holiday jetliners chase a noon the Saxons never knew, And poppies burst like sudden fire along the edges of the hay.
In this rapt green age, the sleep of England stirs in clover deep, Where heavy-headed elderflowers and tangled briar roses creep; But sudden pressure drops the glass, the heavy air begins to tilt, And bruised, metallic clouds roll in across the valley's green and gilt, As silent owls on silver wings their twilight vigils start to keep.
In this charged green age, the lanes are walled with emerald and thorn, Where petrol fumes and meadowsweet are lifted on the breath of morn; The first fat drop of summer rain strikes hard against the baking stone, A flash of lightning sparks the sky, and leaves the shivering trees alone, As thunder breaks the heavy spell under which the day was born.
In this brief green age, the storm washes the tarmac and the clay, Sweeping the suffocating heat and petrol-heavy air away; The cooled earth breathes a petrichor that rises from the steaming lane, While sunbeams pierce the broken clouds to turn the fields to gold again, Before the fleeting warmth of July turns to autumn cold and grey.
