Wiltsong.
Go where white horses lay
on green blanket down
hear young men tell tales
of old Marlborough town.
Run where country girls say
we’re resting on heels
near riverbank’s end
with spin in our reels.
Skip past bullrush and sway
when hillwind comes
alive we will plough
the fields with combs.
Now stare at the edges in clay
and know there are stones
now pausing on land
only ancients
shall own.