The gulls will not fall from the sky
It's rare that they forget to fly
And out along the estuary
The tide will still come creeping in
To swell the saltmarsh from below
And this is all you need to know.
The month will have a different name
But dawn will come up much the same
The dog fox slinking to his den
And ignorant of time, hears not
The distant engine as it stops
But vixens calling, in the copse.
It's men wedged into cubby-holes
With cupboards full of toilet rolls
And cans of peas and candle stocks
Their plastic bags of ten-pound notes
Stuffed into some old training shoe,
Who'll tremble for a day or two.
But trees will reassure the eye
Still stark against the morning sky
The great horse-chestnut looming out
Its buds as sticky and as tight
Above the pleachers in the hedge
Braced wind-bent at the field edge.
The sun, the moon and all the stars
Our books, pianos and guitars
Will all remain unchanged and good
And we must fill what gaps we can
While winter drags its heels to spring
We ants, with all our scuttling.
More sombre men will risk their health
As guardians of our cyber-wealth
And sleepless at computer screens
Despair or cheer as case may be
But when the night has passed away
The chances are there'll be a day.Reuse content