|Huntingdonshire Nocturne 3|
At eleven minutes past the eleventh hour on the eleventh of August,
the moon – that just happens to fit across the sun
like a watch-glass over a watch – will just happen
to cover the sun once more. In Huntingdonshire, where we
are less demonstrative, where our hele stones are hidden deep
beneath a glacier-load of clay, our wishing-trees under peat,
we will not black out completely, but retain our self-control.
Rivers will roll on to the Wash. Traffic will move unmoved.
After all, it started here in the sixties: the first bite,
the fading light. For Baily’s beads, the gravel workings.
For the diamond, a concrete shopping precinct. Where the corona
of a Cromwell or a Cowper might have glowed, a ring-road.