The opening of Fotheringhay:  


Fragments of what England

used to be, tucked

in corners of September:


a park, with its oaks

like a dining room in

a stately home, thrown


open to the public, but

cordoned to keep the sheep

and their deep-pile


instincts, their appetites,

their Sunday cries of

ah! and ah! from coming


to the table. Turf

reseeded, so we may

browse where we belong.



 and Huntingdonshire Eclogue XI