Green hill
REVISION
On stormy nights, when all the trees are swaying,
I think of that green hill, not far away,
the little citadel of weathered stones
where your scant remains are stowed below
in a lacquered box I carried there myself
after your passage through the winnowing fire.
What alchemy revivifies such ashes?
I failed to ask the vicar, pushed for time.
That was June, a busy month for you.
So were they all. Only the weather changed.
And we were comforted by scenes of distant
hay-making, and dreamt-of harvest homes.
ORIGINAL
On stormy nights, when all the trees are swaying,
I think of that green hill, not far away,
the little citadel of weathered stones
where your scant remains are stowed below
in a lacquered box I carried there myself
after your passage through the winnowing fire.
What alchemy revivifies such ashes?
I failed to ask the vicar, pushed for time.
That was June. A busy month for you,
once, as, once, so were they all, and we
were comforted by scenes of distant
hay-making, and dreamt-of harvest homes.
Last edited by David Callin; 03-09-2024 at 11:51 AM.
Reason: I've tinkered with the problematic lines 2 and 3 of S3.
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