From cottage-lavendered garden one looks across the narrow valley to a medieval village.
Not there, of course, just a few furrows and grassy half-discerned clumps.
Long ridges and strips buried signs of oxen pulled coulter tillage.
These slightest curves of moss, a memory of long lost dwelling in shadowed bracken bump.
But now this vale is deathly quiet, few souls inhabit.
But once seven hundred years ago this valley was plague resisting, villein people teeming.
Now just heard, a barking dog, once there were children’s voices no parent could inhibit.
What lives, stories, hunger lies below these mounds, what reeve’s cows stood creaming.
But what is this straight-lined purposefully striding eastwards ridge.
Followed, just marked by setting sun, it leads to east facing dawn, framing village church.
Like those ancient lives, ignored by modern road and passing traffic passing over the bridge.
But still in the Saxon porch I can see its track lit by the suns westward downward lurch.
Once every day they would be walking Mass bound that lane under the old oak’s lea.
Now they are only nameless ghosts whose fierce faith, in my mind’s eye, confronts me.