THRESHOLD

By the fields of dust and harvest haze 
I stopped at the edge of Royce Wood
The old poet there again ahead of me 
With long black coat wispy grey hair and stick
Trudging through his Eden his kingdom his sanctuary
On his long quest for words sense purity calm and reason

I saw him

And amongst the skylarks singing tractors faintly whirring 
The twilight broke

Loves brief spell cracked

And I clung to a mobile
A martyr to the sattellites 
At this threshold

Walking with the madness of John Clare