O, that this earth, which keeps the world in awe
and rests beside the Avon – spirited –
should dance through sinew-spilled ink ne’er more,
nor track the rhythms it inspired…
Shape ‘n send forw’d the currents riv’ring by!
With your time-warped scraps the bed doth lie
suffused! Anew’s the influence – in flux –
with each cascade of spring to inundate
th’fields! E’er fallow lies our linguistic muck;
t’you may yet it turn for cultivation.
Star-fire across the firmament! Its place?
Lighting up the way for the rising sun.
Four hundred years… aft’ all this stretch of time
your quill, once dipped in potted-ink, moves mine.
Image credit – Listal