Debora Greger
From the last carriage, I watch England go by.
Good-bye, summer, we must go.
Good-bye to that field of barley stubble
we just passed, a blur of worthless gold,
and to that orchard aglow with apples.
Look, the first one has fallen, globe gone sour.
Good-bye, shrunken empire whose sun has set.
Now only the worm of the codling moth will hatch
in the starchy chambers of your decay.
Let it devour whatever sweetness is left.
O empty station, where the train no longer stops!
Had I blinked, I would have missed you.
I’ll miss you, too. Tell me, what are you waiting for?
There is no room in your churchyards for another grave.
O Britannia! Someone’s red coat flutters on the edge
of a flag-shaped field scraped down to the dirt.
