Yesterday I went back home
To the land of the White Rabbit,
The Griffin, and the Sheep who both
Rows and knits, parting the autumn reeds
With a Baa and a knowing look.
Her sculling skills were famed,
Along with her Banbury Tarts and
Fresh grass sandwiches, but please
Never mention braised mutton chops,
And certainly not rabbit pie. Yes
Yesterday I went back home
To the sites and gravitas of my early childhood,
Christchurch Meadow that I crossed twice a week
in the mist,
The heads of the slow moving cattle
Floating above grey stillness,
Their horns Viking bright in the dawn.
Yesterday the cattle were gone,
Replaced by marauding tourists
Queuing in droves to tramp through the quad
And the shop where the Sheep once knitted.
But I was still at home despite that throng.
A girl was rowing on the river -
A lizard sat soot black on a roof - and
I heard the melancholy tick of a watch, and saw a
Butterfly take wing.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter,
July 28th.- 29th. 2024.
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