Stanwick

On a dusty green October Sunday,

Sunless and washed by the worn out wind,

We scaled the grass growing mounds of Stanwick

And wandered conversationally through the

Crenelating treess

Cheese sandwiches, apples and orange juice.

Lunched on a rampart and

Munched where the Brigantian world once ended.

(Or was supposed to end.)

We talked quietly of tomorrow and next week

On the worm tilled, turf sheathed

Map of yesterday.