Wilderspool Causeway

Wind-ruffled oaks in common grasses;
a castle that stands in swathes of time.
Do we need these places so we feel small and free
disappearing ripples on a constant sea?

Venture across soft grass and concomitant nettles,
interloper on royal grounds, taught to show reverence.

A Quaker would never bow, except to divine energy,
cumulonimbi piling up over a sequoia treeline
seen from a town centre car-park top.

Lost in the National Trust’s gold and green
insipid Crown Estate heraldry, you forgive great men
foibles, would rather they were private.

Isolated villages, Great Park council properties;
You’re a child with inferiority signposted daily
in ancient stone, drawbridges, Range Rovers.

A prince marries in a Christian church,
hears a standard gospel message: the family smirks.

These ancient oaks, Mildmay plantings,
are so much less derisive. Yes, lose yourself,
your ego, self-importance, conceited dreams
of greatness: lose it in great rivers,
unknown nebulae, at just a glimpse
of someone who stands apart through learning
or instinct; lose yourself before a farmer
who humbly read the weather, a taxi driver
who baffled with all the London streets,
a player who created time when others snatched.

Never lose yourself to fortifications,
a curated garden, some farcical sage green
punt at prestige, falsely weathered wood
or new authentic signage, those people
who filter the Holy Land through Instagram:
‘Here’s a picture of me wading through the Jordan,
beyond the profane; here’s one by the holy sepulchre,
hope I got the lighting right and you see me
in Jesus’ footsteps. I’m wearing a hoodie &
a cowboy hat as per the megachurch uniform
so young people can relate to me.
Hope you can ignore the salary,
but look at the followers, the reach,

and who I’ve saved from hellfire –
hope you’ll forgive me.’