The taste of figs and cream, cool slipping down your
the crisp white dresses gleaming against green,
the ping of tennis balls on the clipped grassy coat,
the brilliant voices, sudden silences, the wells
birds fill with liquid flutes and watery sounds,
the summer rustle purring in the leaves.
Lie here and let sun suck the marrow of distress,
change it to a fantastic dream, a nursery rhyme, a game
(You used to play it) ‘Still Pond, no more moving.'
The old kind-hearted dog will come to be caressed,
the cat with barley-sugar eyes run after bees
and then come back to rub against your knees.
Lie here face down and slip off into sleep;
Lie here at last and soak the sun of gentleness
into your veins.
This is the England dreamed of, the island of content,
the changeless statue in a garden,
the still pond, moving not.