At Leominster
This is eternal England.
It slumbers
And its sleep is death.
Here is the memory of God
In the grace of a garden
And significant stone,
A church whose magnificence
Saddens its congregation.
For all that is past,
God is not here.
The smells of the countryside
Fill the green's soft air,
The clouds form out of the haze
And mirror the forms of the trees.
A few children - a sufficient few
So that all their cries seem important -
Play on the climbing frames and swings.
It is the moment you know
You must cherish,
And you think:
This is eternal England.
It slumbers
And its sleep is death.
Oh God give it breath!