New Values For Old Poem by Peter J White

A young man, London born, I moved to Croxley Green
Where, to the north, primeval forests stood of elm, birch,
And conifers; pasture, beet and budding corn between.
Eastward, concrete stretched to London’s Marble Arch,
Whence a war-torn wave had spilled, invaders of the new locality,
Shaking loose our banged-up flotsam on the cusp of the black
And beryl pine; street-smart refugees disdainful of the new reality -
(Lines of bungalows and not much else, gardens back-to-back.)
The country folk, though much dismayed by urban sprawl,
Appalled by kick-the-can and hop-scotch in the streets;
Dumbfounded speechless by our cryptic cockney drawl;
Heavily outnumbered; gave us the road, with generous feats
Of adaptation. Until at last our grudging social soul
Fused with theirs, in one unanimous, incorporated whole.



So it was that I began with notebook, pack and stick
To go about the countryside, tuned to the bated breath
Of a summer breeze; to symphonies of rain. A maverick,
Meeting squirrels, badgers; blackbird and thrush, deft
Husbandmen of beechnut, sphagnum moss and brush.
Swimming dizzy in rhododendron masses, amethyst and blue,
Under the clatter of fantails. I saw where the semaphore flash
In the wheat, signaled a vixen and her pups passing through.
Within a year this fellowship had welcomed my inclusion;
What merit then in selfish pride; the approval of blokes
In pubs; in building an empire? What of the carved-in-stone illusion
That money measures our sucess; of empty heads and smutty jokes?
I saw until we learn to live God’s way, this axiom remains,
That ‘men are born free and yet are everywhere in chains.’