the light at noon
spread over green:
fields of tender green
before the harvest
before time knew all
but our names.

the seasons reinstate
grass broken beneath
treads of the innocent
who tried remaking the world.

memorials of thorn
uproot in a moment
and who are we to disturb
what remains underneath.

how many lovers since
haunted by sacrifice
lay nameless across
England's pungent greens.

and with their kiss we scatter
between the gaps
in this thriving
meadow soil.

as birds above, explode
from the time-worn trees,
and wheel dreamlike, toward sun.