Hartwood

by Edward Keyes

Red-roofed house with backdrop of trees
in forefront, hayfield with wagons,
cloudy, blue-flecked summer sky
so my Godmother painted it.

Here, over 2 years, I came for quiet days
respite from bomb-blasted Hull,
taking the long-discarded Wold train
steaming through grassy uplands
stopping at pre-Beeching stations.
Here I first discovered the magic
of Vaughan's poems, pointers to eternity,
arching the restless years, walked the farm dogs
(Lassie, Peter) in fields across the road.
Read Karamazov, Barchester Towers,
ill-matched 19th century bedfellows.

Knapton church on Sunday. The scholarly vicar
preaching cool, orthodox sermons
to a faithful few. On radio opening serenities
of Brahms' "Song of Destiny", "Brains Trust" in full flow.
Cycled in green lanes. Random harvest
of green thoughts, linking a vanished time
with mind-light before and after.