Lord, Reserve For Me A Crown, And

I Have A Vision Of The Future, Chum. The Workers Flats In Fields Of Soya Beans Tower Up Like Silver Pencils, Score On Score.

Childhood Is Measured Out By Sounds And Smells And Sights, Before The Dark Hour Of Reason Grows.

A Whispering And Watery Norfolk Sound Telling Of All The Moonlit Reeds Around.

Hymns Are The Poetry Of The People.

It's Strange That Those We Miss The Most Are Those We Take For Granted.