This England I now roam of green

which for another time holds dear

would at the hearth of days long gone

stand, warm itself hid from the storm.


Crisp cricket whites hung on the line

and tea enjoyed at summer fair,

and fingers black from Sunday papers

beckon sunset shine on her once more.


Dreams sweet as jam from berries tart

of who she was and could have been

from mirror turns at sight most foul

and searches for the good old days.