it is a known fact
that as he stood admiring
a fine skyline of the city of London
in all its breathtaking splendour
Blake conversed with the sun
from atop Primrose Hill
content i would have been
if he’d sat with me upon this bench
hewn out of a fallen tree
strategically placed to appreciate
the quiet slopes of our valley
sweeping from feet to depths below
while the glow of sol burnishes
where meadow grass once danced
now cut back rolled perfectly baled
to bake in warm sunlight
like ink blots on yellowed parchment
crows in random rows
in their black coat and tails
pause in golden stubble
resembling musical notes
on a composer’s manuscript
i am singing
i am singing