The land was ours before we were the land’s.She was our land more than a hundred yearsBefore we were her people. She was ours
She is as in a field a silken tentAt midday when a sunny summer breezeHas dried the dew and all its ropes relent
One misty evening, one another’s guide,We two were groping down a Malvern sideThe last wet fields and dripping hedges home.
Writers find a way to challenge and chronicle the consciences of their nations.
Inside that mud-hive, that gas-sponge, that reeking leaf-yard, that rippling
On the quietest days, when the sea just hovers in the background and the light is no particular color I forget summer,
The ethics of newborn screening.
