June–To–Come

When the sun’s fire and gold
Sets the bee humming,
I will not write to tell
Him that I’m coming,

But ride out unawares
On that old road,
Of Minsterworth, of Peace,
Of Framilode,

And walk, not looked for, in
That cool, dark passage.
Never a single word;
Myself my message.

And then; well ... O we’ll drift
And stand and gaze,
And wonder how we could
In those Bad Days

Live without Minsterworth;
Or western air
Fanning the hot cheek,
Stirring the hair;
In land where hate of men
God’s love did cover;
This land.... And here’s my dream
Irrevocably over.