The stone-built villages of England. 
A cathedral bottled in a pub window. 
Cows dispersed across fields. 
Monuments to kings. 

A man in a moth-eaten suit 
sees a train off, heading, like everything here, for the sea, 
smiles at his daughter, leaving for the East. 
A whistle blows. 

And the endless sky over the tiles 
grows bluer as swelling birdsong fills. 
And the clearer the song is heard, 
the smaller the bird.