Vishal Dutia

England, is that a dirty word?
A bald head, red cross marching
and flying from the tower
of a church.

Is it the motorways that trickle into
single lane streams, footpaths
and woodland tracks where
every tree is copsed,
every briar pruned,
thistle picked,
stair railed,
murderer jailed,
screen synced…

syncronise the apples
to the seasons;
the drab, maritime sky
to the emotion;
the tunnel of ancient
boughs to the lost poet.

To every painter,
sculptor, musician
and gambler, starving
as they stride under
oaken branches,
red squirrels play
above you
and feathery leaves
will keep you 
looking
up.

© VishalDutia