The pleasant blessed pastures of Wessex of the South West,
Of the poetic rolling wet and green of Thomas Hardy’s nest,
Seeded poetry in my heart,
waiting to blossom at last,
for it was there in the old Wessex capital
that I had buried my longing heart
longing to return to me undyingly
just as I yearn to return to Sherborne
to fill the void in me and be reborn.
What stories could they tell
If stones could speak?
What fables could they testify
If fields could talk?
Such history that the Saxon abbey could reveal
Of secrets and intrigues and life and death,
Such tales that South Cadbury could convey,
Of Camelot and Arthur and Guinevere and Merlin.
Such myths and legends the South West boasts
Of Stonehenge and Avebury and Glastonbury and Cerne Abbas
and the mysterious moors of wild and windy Devon.
Sherborne speaks to me like no other place does
Dorset calls out to me like no other place does
“Come home” ring the bells at Sherborne
Live in exile no more, retake your place.
Such overwhelming yearning to return
Drives me insane and imminent collapse
Everyday, every hour, every minute, every second.
And indeed cloudy days and foggy days
Fill me with life and energy and optimism and hope
And likewise rainy days and wintry nights
Remind me of hearth and home I used to relish
On England’s pleasant pastures and rolling green.
To live in exile is severe suffering and punishment
I accept this retribution for an unjust past life
That I must have lived in my previous reincarnation
But then a famous son of Liverpool once sang
“It’s not always going to be this grey”
“All Things Must Pass”
And I must go home.