Peter Ainsworth

Train to Penrith

There’s a lot of England left Whatever glum people say - Acres and acres of it - but dull Even in Spring; bereft

Of hedgerows, wild flowers. Grim units of production, Grey barns, an occasional spread Of solar panels. Lost towers

Of churches pointing nowhere Punctuate an agnostic sky; Car parks, piles of pointless tyres And dull villages where

I bet nothing happens at all Since all the kids left, Buggering off to find jobs. Moving north, a dry wall

Or two brings some relief But the flatlands of Middle England (Which are sodden and unkind) Have little to offer but grief

For lives lost or missed Or now spent on water In narrow boats; can canals Keep at bay the hereafter?

Only if you’re pissed.