June 27, 2008
The old road to Aylesbury: the verges mown, straw-coloured. Wood smoke somewhere, scent of memories, scent of longing, where the line of hills keeps safe our green distances , tall umbels turning to seed in the hedges, the corn a juicy green in the fields behind. The road winds a bit, keeping the rhythm of the land and its centuries. Here I pass but here I feel I would be permanent, may be permanent. Here England speaks to me. Here and by the sea, where granite cottages grow out of the harbourside and narrow lanes are steep, with whitewashed houses. Where the gulls cry. And again here in Bucks where the cattle browse and where the skies are wide.