Historic

You took my tales to Lincolnshire,
plastered on walls of bookshops in Grosseteste,
tongues of Tennyson brushes,  
galvanised Thatcher rain
dripping in those awe-culled gutters,
stories of which were buried,  
withering Ulysses,
aging Ulysses
lighting one dank corner
of a breezy bar
in an enchanting high street
in which no one knows a name
bar Boris or Tom, or Tumbridge Wells,
beckoning
those good old days,
city smoke, lazy Sundays
down
a map of South is marred,  
urned,
our names scrawled across that jar
to see if it would sing,
la, la-la
painted Northerners,
with sea-salt hair, mud-encrusted,
made'm Moor-folk.  
So yes, you took it all to Lincolnshire
when I left
too soon,
loving you
beneath
lavender sheets,
grave
-ness playing
bonded blues,  
onward,
filling holes,  
plugging gaps,
slowing a tank
pummelling that fortress of us,  
spitting history
at anyone who would 'ear you,
I'd hear you
so you should know,
to quieten vikings
trampling parts of your gentler mind,  
whilst I never came,
though, in thoughness, I never saw,
there was a joy of us,
scattered forth
due to you,  
swept on
through time,
in all parts of this bleak England.