Remember how in Oxford the past went on?
Deep and mighty works of Man survive,
an outflow breaking from its time, alive
on its own terms, into a future sun.
Viewed from a distance, the ages of the earth
march stately, masked by strata of man’s work.
But here, the life, health, aging of the sphere
untouched, becomes uncomfortably clear,
revealed as a rapid downhill clatter to rubble.
The land is new and changing fast, the troubled
land is born and dies. See how it is born
unclothed, as yet infertile. I’d much rather
plot a book, than know how these my bones
shall turn to stones and flesh to land and water.