The earth was all of a
piece this afternoon in
the tender caresses of
early November sunlight.
Green winter glowed like
velvet peach fuzz on
the softly curving slopes
all the way up to
Harston and all the way
down to Grantchester.
The first flinching frosts
had cleaned the
undergrowth from the
upright trees.
The fences that chop and
saw at the fields made
no divisive stand against
the spilling of light into
the hollows that the river
knows as home.
The earth was all one,
all joined,
all belonging to itself,
all alight,
all green,
all of a piece,
all at peace.
The contesting bitter
traffic fumes
and transgenic pollen dust
that is Trumpington
were set aside this
afternoon.
I almost liked Cambridge.
November 6th
1998
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