Come stand here, by the Peachey stone, atop this screaming hill,
enchant yourself in memories, imbibe yourself in thrill,
where Byron used to gaze across, a hundred fields and more,
that lifetime’s journey, short and steep, soaked into every pore.
Behind, the ringers chiming, as near to six as damn,
down low the grass of England, grows upward without plan,
there’s people walk this nowhere, dead-ended in a view,
horizon’s sulphured vapour, inspiring with its hue.
His long gone elm’s replanted; a gale blows through my mind,
the roaring sea of tree leaves, unties that mental blind,
George Gordon called this Ida, his winding hill retreat,
four years of Harrow schooling, new worlds beneath his feet.
St.Mary’s churchyard, spiring, stacked houses crib St.Ives,
leant into wind undaunted, their ancient strength revives.
I’ll never see through his eyes, no closer more, than this,
to feel the springtime sun alight, onto my brow, its kiss.
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