Close to Bosworth field, I finally arrive
Woodlands, a muddy
farm track, a gate
At the village of
Croxall a lowering sky
Broods over the
manorial estate
The church beckons
me. Am I going home?
Faded and creased
like an old diagram
England is written
in its soft grey stone
Perhaps it will
tell me who I am
I seek meaning
trying to disinter the dead
From the old
graves, where the past is frozen
Nothing. Sometimes
the past cannot be read
Snowdrops smother
them – a white explosion
I seek consolation
from their beauty
The ancient village
is lost, so am I
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