The Dorset boy lies on his back in the grass,
Squinting at the summer sky from under a straw hat;
Why can he not stay this way forever
And never have to grow into a man?
He knows every clod of this county,
Every field, hedge and gate, every tree’s silhouette,
The depth and temperament of every stream,
The works of fairies, the scenes of ancestral crimes.
And words emerge from him like miller-moths
From the mouths of the dying.
Solitary Tom sits by, silent, unnoticed,
Watching others sing, play, chatter and jest.
Till the day he dies he will never forget
That smile, so sweet, a nameless beauty gave him
As she passed by on horseback
In the fragrant August lane.
At Dorchester prison he stands, transfixed,
Next to the creaking gallows, staring up
At the murderess who slit her husband’s throat.
Beautiful, she dangles against the rainy sky,
Her black silk gown wound tightly round her,
Her face half-visible through a mask of wet cloth.
Sketch-pad in hand, he walks from village to village,
Prentice architect, surveying ancient churches,
Touching their stones with a lover’s hands,
Tracing their lineaments with a pencil,
His quiet eyes lighting on chronicles and dreams.
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