Something in the fields

Riding the tides of Buckinghamshire
Where the last of the beeches blow

Surfing the surfeits of housing estates
Where speedwell used to grow

Something in the fields in May
Will not be there in June

The train puffs and plunders through cuckolds of green
London is coming soon

Slogging the sleepers away from the Shires
Dragging a sadness in tow

Feeling the tuggings of moon and machine
Battling over the flow

Something in the fields in May
Will not be there in June

My journey is shorter than ever before
London is coming soon

Staple, spring 1999