Blackbury Camp

There is nothing here

but beech and mound

and songbird sound

with a wind from the west

scratching at the thorn

while underfoot fallen leaves

whisper as one passes

as mourners might

to one who grieves.

No name survives,

no face. The grasses

on the banks

sway in silent ranks

to quiet music of the day,

breeze and bird, and sheep

deep in Southleigh Combe

this lambing time.

Those people would have heard

sounds similar to this

and doubtless thought

upon its lovely transience

and said, maybe, in tones

as casual as that passing crow,

face to grubby face,

others shall be happy here,

like us, yet leave no trace.