"Wurr be gwain, mah lov'rr?"     - Ah,
no soft refrain,
this sentence sweetly rural, in
a country lane.

No country maiden pauses in
her morning walk
with country boy, and, planning for
a lover's talk,

Answers: "Over yuerr, mah lov'rr."
No, still sweeter,
these kind words were spoken not
in love to greet her,

But her father, old and smiling,
close behind her
in the parlor of a pub
by mugs of cider.

It was her brother asked the question,
gently laughing.
"Bain" gwun no-wurr," said the old man.
They were not chaffing,

For in Devon is the world
a natural lover,
both in word as well as feeling;
custom wove her,

Blessed Devon, in a tidy
weave complex.
So daun 'ee vex 'erself mah lov'rr!
Daun 'ee vex!

"Sah'b! Sah'b! Baksheesh! Salaam!
"Sah'b, bakshi?"
Apparently vacant, perfectly calm
I deign to see
naught - hear nothing of her drool.
The train will start;
then, for a space of time some cool
air may dart
(with dust and ****) across my brow.
It is so hot!

Next stop, on oath, again I vow
more beggars trot.
"Sah'b," she whines at me. No notice
do I take,
but wisdom tells me mental note is
sure to make
impression clear upon my mind
in this heat.
I cannot for so long be blind.
It is defeat.

For, can I, deafened, be unkind,
ignore the bleat?
"Sah'b," she whimpers at my window.
So I turn.
She wins - I lose and glance below.
Inside I burn,
but give no outward sign.  I spy
a legless *******
slobbering. Worse still, clung to by
a babe at ******.

Their world is theirs, though it be theirs
and small.
Theirs by which to stand - perhaps to fall.
By shells of monarch buildings gaunt and dead,
gaily nervous and with turning head
and listening ears and watching hearts that beat,
they pass their hours in the home, the street;
and silently they **** a silent war,
who feel the present and have felt before.

The war goes on - there is no sound of guns.
Only the fierce friction of brains that are hissing;
the tense and savage barter of two for ones.
And all the while in the park,
there are lovers kissing.

Take me over autumn fields and moors
wet with warm September falls of rain,
under the dark, familiar sky that roars
and lightens, and is yours and mine again.
Take my hand and laugh, then slip beside
the blowing wind we love, and run with me.
And we shall dance with hurried clouds and ride
upon brown rocks awash with sea.

Have you noticed how the children
are not singing any more?
Neither do they hum,
as we would do, or whistle when
remembering a tune.
Have you noticed how the children
are not listening any more?
For now their ears are numb
from the beating and the wailing
at the altar rock.

Listen. It is the moonlight.
Can you hear it fall,
like a drench of silver rain
upon the garden wall?
Can you hear the moonbeams
splashing as they spill,
glancing from the grasses to
the sleeping daffodil?
Listen. It is the moonlight.
Can you hear it fall
gently through the shaded night,
upon the garden wall?

Across a wind and willop of a sea
your face grows dim, grows dim to me.
At first it grew in strength, was clear,
at every corner, haunting, near.
Time and distance can do much
to love - how fast I lose your touch
across a wind and willop of a sea.
Your face grows dim, grows dim to me.