On the way back from Grantchester,
I had much to think about,
With the road winding on before me,
Ruts worn into the countryside
By countless wagons and other travelers having passed
Through this same, dreary grey landscape,
The evening settling down about me, around me,
Like the cloak draped over my shoulders
That hides the world from me-that I
Don't know exists save for seeing it-
That scares away the stars and foreboding mist,
Though they never truly leave, because
For some reason higher they always sit behind twisted clouds,
Or haunt me from shadows just over my shoulder,
Or at least persist in clinging to the cloak's hem,
Pulling down until the weight becomes too much
For my steed, a stalwart creature void of complaints,
Who need not worry about a brother and the hurt borne of
A look cast from green eyes on a fair-haired maiden,
Which linger in my mind-in that valley of the shadow,
In breath expelled and curling up into the drizzle by my mouth-
And with hearts wrapped on their fingers, tightly stretching,
Wrenching, they dance into the night,
Golden locks waving in the light of flame,
Falling short of the late afternoon sun, now in clouds cloaked,
The one whose rays stripe your path and
Bring a haze to warm and calm you,
Even if fields need to be tended or cows fed
From meadows that find resolve and become the sharpest green
After torrents of rain and resonant thunder, not unlike what I hear now,
When I wonder whether nature knows not what it does,
Or has, in the ability to create and destroy,
No power to push the dumb creatures
Like my horse to comprehension, leaving them ignorant
Of what they have been shown, letting us think
All we know is all that should be known, as we remain unfound
On the path back from Grantchester.
Though they never truly leave, because
For some reason higher they always sit behind twisted clouds,
Or haunt me from shadows just over my shoulder,
Or at least persist in clinging to the cloak's hem,
Pulling down until the weight becomes too much
For my steed, a stalwart creature void of complaints,
Who need not worry about a brother and the hurt borne of
A look cast from green eyes on a fair-haired maiden,
Which linger in my mind-in that valley of the shadow,
In breath expelled and curling up into the drizzle by my mouth-
And with hearts wrapped on their fingers, tightly stretching,
Wrenching, they dance into the night,
Golden locks waving in the light of flame,
Falling short of the late afternoon sun, now in clouds cloaked,
The one whose rays stripe your path and
Bring a haze to warm and calm you,
Even if fields need to be tended or cows fed
From meadows that find resolve and become the sharpest green
After torrents of rain and resonant thunder, not unlike what I hear now,
When I wonder whether nature knows not what it does,
Or has, in the ability to create and destroy,
No power to push the dumb creatures
Like my horse to comprehension, leaving them ignorant
Of what they have been shown, letting us think
All we know is all that should be known, as we remain unfound
On the path back from Grantchester.