“67. The country is not pastoral: it was” in “Musing”
67.
The country is not pastoral: it was
Fine for escaping the plague. Some would paint
Urban scenes on blinds in their carriages
Rather than look at the mess of some
Bucolic field. Now they are slaughtering
Sheep and cattle in this green and pleasant land
Where we once farmed, or, when we could,
Fled the wine trade for country life
London for East Anglia. What’s remarkable
Is how the vast rural abattoir
Has now become a pyre, an army
Operation, for the love of country
What is to be done? By that stream in Cambridge
Were we deluded that nature could be loved?
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