Driving along the B 1248
We pass such villages as Wetwang, or
North Grimston of descending Z-bends.
The Wolds are rolling for our benefit;
The long woods stride toward the eastern shore.
Frost sparks refrigerated ploughland to
A fan of silver ribs, good husbandry
In straight lines, going downhill to a point,
A misted earthen star, half-frost, half-ground.
And we are going to our country friends
At Kirkbymoorside, bearing a pineapple,
Some books of interest and a fine Bordeaux.
I wish it to be today, always, one hour
On this, the pleasant side of history.
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