was calling you in welcome to the combs

and brought you to my India as it once

was;Sunday bells and smells,pink villagers

smiling from stiles to ask us how we were.

The rabbits ran where Cory-ate had once been

and planes left trails over the last long men

and the stone circles and hawthorn hedges.

This was temporary,I knew.I was not well,

trapped between proffered pity and the pain.

I would have shown you Somerset if I could

but stayed indoors in a deep leather chair.

Still,not a bad day;down the flowered lane,