England is sleeping.
The rows of tiny towns,
Swollen expanses of London,
Empty patchworks of fields
Cannot yet see the sun
But slumber in a dark blue repose.
Only we, aliens, privileged visitors
Descending from foreign skies
Can see it gilding the clouds
First pink, then orange, gold;
First the high icy waves
Then the great tumbled heaps
The wisps of baseless colour
The highest church spires;
The great land bellow.
England is sleeping.
She is waking, slowly;
The sun is gilding her skin bronze
Her hair white-gold;
It is touching her eyelids with the first rays of day.
And though she does not see
A plane nine-thousand feet above her
My beautiful England is waiting for me
And I return at last.
for someone.
written on a plane about to land.
3 comments:
you no, i think you rock!poems are awesome and i dont recigniuse that crazy picture, what is it!is it because im not cultured n stuff?
the h ton thingy is a neon sign on a building at night, missing an 'i' and an 'l'
oh, and the other picute (which you probably meant)is a view down a 20-storey garbage shute with the flash on
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