Alfriston Clergy House

If I can just make this one thing not die,
the clappers in the loft will stop their murders.
     A spur of the river, the bargemen.
          Downpour, springshine.
A Hue Walker through the reeds coming.
               Floodable garden.
               Wheatish flame
          past the casement guttering.
I have been here a thousand years,
a time before my head formed a house
          threaded by bluebottles.

               Livewell,
               Bidenmorta.
               Bread oven,
          shovel called peels.
     That amazing bread oven.
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