Lies not in Westminster Abbey as previously thought
but on the Wiltshire/Berkshire borders
under an elm tree long gone

Nearby Belgium Canaries trace their footsteps
on the card crisp paths
searching for the land of peacocks
but they find only dust

The black eyes gazelles offer their assistance
but are refused
so they return to their studies
and the footsteps are traced once more

In the blue wooden house
where Jeremy Fisher lives
the golden light of the cornfields
illuminates all his rooms
there is no need for artificiality he reasons
gold by day
white by night
nature always shares its colours

He is writing a book
a guide to the Isle of Bards
perhaps he will rewarded with a relic
or at least a druids stone
which would look nice in the sky
above his head

In the wheelhouse of a passing barge
a woman weaves a tapestry
she will never complete the task
as her husband is far away
fighting salamanders on forgotten seas

A cunning scorpion had plans for her
as it sat on a nearby bridge
but it died in despair
having stung itself out of boredom
when the sun went down

The nearby cortège also rests
as it has for hundreds of years
listening to the hollow calls
of those wonderful birds

what lyrical fantasies
do these gypsies of the night
create for these sullen men

Who do not dress in black
as you might think
but in silks of shocking pink

On the Sarum road
the labourers return from the bean harvest
speaking of the dancing stars
and of the purple skies

When the day returns
they will plan the festivals of the fields
which will take place
where the white cattle now graze

They will perform plays
about Captain Cook
whose likeness is still to be found
in the wells of ballerinas nearby

In the listen-loved air of these counties
borders are not seen
only felt
their soils will change colour
but not texture
and they will always smell of aniseed
no matter where you tread

on your way to the drumming fair