It's time I went back there.
That place I have neglected so long.
That most wonderful knot of flint snugly concealed
Between the broad protecting shoulders of the Downs.
I would stop by one cottage in particular,
Its foundations dug into the chalk,
Stubbornly keeping its grip on the hillside.
Then I would remember as a little boy
Standing by my Father's side as he told me
In hushed tones of restrained emotion
That he had been born here.
I always return
To the woods and lanes he gave names to,
Known by him and his people,
Forgotten now by weekend dwellers.
Years later I still climb that flint encrusted lane
Which leads to the little church on the hill.
Taller now, my head is stroked
By the lush green boughs of the canopy above.
Alighting on that hill I enter the church,
Into that gloom and breathe in
The heady musk of ancient reverence.
Closing my eyes I can hear the people long dead
Who breathed life into those lofty rafters
With centuries of prayer.
Virginal white tablets and busts
Declare past gentry of note while the worn pews
Testify to the poor who have sat with them.
And then I am outside again
Greeting the sun with a grimacing smile.
Walking down among the headstones, I sit on a wall
Between where my Father's siblings sleep
And survey the sun-crowned ridges
That face me across the valley and think
This is peace.
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