sunday on kilvey hill

sunday on kilvey hill

every shushed sunday morning high

on kilvey hill under a skylark sky

duncan and peter his corgi and i 

heatherward upward until lunch is nigh 

old walls lizard-stoned and grey

or tussocked white with grass and hay

there often in statue the hare did lay

or a fox curled up sleeping off the day

past the soggy-sock marsh in reed

past the suck-shoe marsh indeed

first bomb-hole pool bound in weed

second bomb-hole pool scarfed indeed

every hushed sunday morning high

above the village that smoking sty

where the industrial psalmists rumble and i 

and we knew anon the end is nigh

but ne’er say never ne’er say nay

for cometh the hour cometh the day

when we can stay and stay

and mature of youth we will say

that we cannot of this sulphur bleed

or over the glassy slag tips indeed

spill youth’s angst or take a heed

for tomorrow in its numbing greed

we under these heather walls and sky

we will overstay and overstay 

and as any two boys in their need will say

we are off home full-pelt for lunch is nigh 

lunch under kilvey hill