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.
Afterwards 