I had a heart
when I was in England
Heart in England,
morning runs through cemeteries
racing with
Mary’s ghost, merging
with the mist amongst the cenotaphs,
vaporous fingers tracing ancient names
on leaning tombstones,
and
tracing sweat along my chest
as
this American boy
pumped legs
round and round,
lighter then, lithe even,
leaping stones
and roots, names
and faces.
Heart in England,
pints pulling,
Bald Faced Stag,
quiet surliness of the local crowd
losing its quiet as
the lager pours,
and that gorgeous, simmering
English anger roars…
Heart in England,
the people forged
by war and war and war,
invasion and repulsion,
the winnowing of the weak,
the island of the strong.
This fortress.
Heart in England,
the poet’s house
around the corner,
writ on water
as
my Scotch pours over an ancient grave,
the constant, multi-hued gray sky,
the cemetery grass in winter,
beneath my feet
for now.
Heart in England,
the poet in the walled city,
singing songs
love, lust, joy
sorrow. Some
human conditions.
Some rented truths.
Voice a constant
background hum,
hunters eyes just so,
in the dark and light…
English eyes.
Heart in England
still.
Writer Moe 