Mill Hill Ridgeway. (Newly Completed Poem).

(The greenest of suburbs are haunted by ghosts)


I love to walk in these fields at midnight,
Feel the earth breathing beneath my feet,
A stressed out mother deep in slumber.

I love to sit still on the south facing slope,
Watch galaxies pulse through magical skies,
A trillion heart beats in the tumult of space.

I love especially the warm June nights
When I can hear wandering foxes cry
Over distances only the fiercest would travel.

This is my dream time, private and holy,
When I can look further than daylight allows,
I sense the depths lost far beneath silence
Where linger the echoes of ancestral voices,

Labourers who gleaned where middle class houses
Now litter lost fields once yellow with corn,
Close by Wilberforce built a plain brick chapel,
A Low Church Parish for hard up farmers.

I love to walk on these hills at midnight
And dream of my forebears struggling for bread.
The slopes overlook where the old farm nestled
Among English elms more graceful than spires.

But the trees are all gone, and the smug little houses
Now huddle together, row upon row
In the valley where horses once whinnied their praise.

Oh I wish I could bulldoze those snide little semis
And restore the valley to tractor and plough.

Meanwhile I walk the last of the green hills,

Down tracks where shadows seem to whisper my name. 

 Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 5th. - 6th. 2018. - September 1st. - 2nd.  -  5th.- 6th. 2020.
Completed October 16th. - 25th.2022.