Hope

Tomorrow is a land whose parents are memories.

Of closed Sunday shops, and drizzle on slate.

And when we felt bad for not going to church.

And Methodists, good people, still held some sway.

And too young coffins were carried by policemen,

And teachers wore gowns and disciplined their love.

Then a man came to town. A teacher of nothings.

He made us climb rocks and bought us all beer.

Then drove us all home, as if it was nothing.

Jerusalem. Nearly.

Jesus, walk again on England’s pleasant pasture.

And spike the heart of Satan with my arrows of desire.