John Clare poet

 
Tractors creep along the lane
cutting hedgerows, neat and long
the old hedge-layer redundant now
his bill hook hanging on the wall
memories of yesterday working at
a natural pace, close with nature
tea when dark and children home
horses in the stable
wood logs blazing in the hearth.

Those were the days they say
the "they" I never met
sweating with the plough
sacking round your shoulders
string around our knees.
Those were not the days
Constable's idyllic nonsense,
see the grass in rotting thatch
the  middin,  pigsty,
muddy lanes and fire wood
collected on the way from school,
candles with your home-work,
haywain  at the ford,
never been to Stamford.

Heard of London from the squire.
A pint to vote, maybe a kiss
from the landlord's daughter
The parish when the work runs out.