The sun has gone and jaundiced is the sky
The silence of the empty roads is good
For from my garden birds are flying high
In this precious green we grew a wood
No holiday in Venice or Dubai
Lockdown keeps us in what do we sigh
I want to see the village of old Cley
The still small voice shall speak before we die
No more shall rich possesions make us high
Nor shall buying cream and caviare
We are judged by God’s incisive eye
Stand up, live, despite that all’s awry
The Sacred World behind our little one
We learn to see in part though we are dumb
