Forgotten summer dreams still fill this field,
which lies unsullied ‘midst the concrete hell,
as if preserved by some uncanny spell
that makes this bit of England slow to yield.
A babbling brook, the running river Cole,
which floods enough to foil the builders’ talks,
preserves this lawn against the eager Orcs
in mem’ry of a childhood Hobbit hole.
The mill that meant so much to you still stands,
and not far off the sandy place of play
you and your brother chased in, many a day,
while dreaming deep and long of bygone lands.
What was the root of writing so sublime?
Looking for England, buried under time.