"The Sparrow has my voice"

 

I found that photo.  This was at Coate Waters, our beginning so to speak.  Paul had dressed up for me, not sure about the black shirt but as he introduced me to this part of the world he had grown up in I began to know the person he was.  He had moved here when young, to a place just outside Swindon Old Town.  We went to the Richard Jeffries museum which is near Coate Water and though I had never read any of Jeffries books, I now own three.  He is my first nature writer I would go to for his extraordinary descriptions of nature at that time.  His ability to bring in  his childhood into the magic of being a child is a powerful message.  I would almost say that Jeffries is a lost author who needs discovering again.

The following video charters the creative element that a museum can bring to children and grown up people alike.

This morning someone had put a poem on F/B addressing the sad death of Anne Widecombe, a political figure who had strong views.  The poem is for us and is another rendition of 'My England' as seen through different eyes.

You Do Not Speak For Me - Harry Gallagher

You do not speak for me.

The sparrow has my voice,

busying between hedgerows,

English as a cloudy day,

no matter what you

or your henchmen say. .

That oldman and his dog,

out at dawn beachcombing,

letting the morning tickle

his mouth up at the edges,

his gait carries my weight

as he lightens the day.

The wildflowers on verges,

reaching for something

they can never quite touch,

but stretching all the same,

smudging their glories

allover the mundane.

These Saturday kids,

smiling through braces,

serving ice creams on days

when ‘hot’ doesn’t cut it,

learning that patience is

waiting for sainted grandmas

to choose between

sprinkles or flake.

The policeman, the plumber,

the teacher, roadsweeper,

prampushing mums,

gleaming proud dads,

the Sunday funrunners

replenishing the sweat

with a pint of English best

after winning their bet.

That lifesaver doctor,

last hour of her shift

who hasn’t slept since

God only knows when;

as kindas kiss it betters

to the latest in a line

of confused oldladies

who all ask the same thing:

"But where were you born dear?"

and "Ooh what a lovely smile,

what lovely skin"

as she holds their hands,

asks them where it hurts.

This is my England.

Its voice is not scabrous,

it is soft.

Its fingers reach down

to pick up the fallen,

brushing them down,

to hold them aloft.

Your tone is shrill,

a study in antipathy.

You are not my England

and you do not speak for me.