High Barnet Church, the marker,
These meadows in a weave of cornflower,
dry spiked thistles and buttercup
break up, yielding their impressions of hay.
Tall grasses, familiar trees,
we are walking through Tudor Fields,
traveling north, climbing to the highest point,
from Jack's Lake to King George Fields.
Is this nostalgia? The smog over Canary Wharf,
simmering city, innards blistering?
When we have escaped the centre, looking back,
it's the future ahead, all trees,
no red, no brick, no battles;
in summertime meadows,
the shoulder - all ribbons of purple,
where we are both golden and green.