The poem
The stone-built villages of England. A cathedral bottled in a pub window. Cows dispersed across fields. Monuments to kings.
A man in a moth-eaten suit sees a train off, heading, like everything here, for the sea, smiles at his daughter, leaving for the East. A whistle blows.
And the endless sky over the tiles grows bluer as swelling birdsong fills. And the clearer the song is heard, the smaller the bird.