The opening of Fotheringhay:  
 

 

Fragments of what England

used to be, tucked

in corners of September:

 

a park, with its oaks

like a dining room in

a stately home, thrown

 

open to the public, but

cordoned to keep the sheep

and their deep-pile

 

instincts, their appetites,

their Sunday cries of

ah! and ah! from coming

 

to the table. Turf

reseeded, so we may

browse where we belong.

 

 

 and Huntingdonshire Eclogue XI