The experience of innocence

is like a plum

in season,

sweet and simple,

but old innocence

is the old fruit;

innocence which

leads to want,

wandering in droughty places.

Leaf by leaf,

the tree

strips itself

like a beggar,

leaving the best last;

the king hauls off

and bats his

crown away,

the exile begins his

journey.

Far from the chalky

cliffs of power,

the poor farmer

finds an hour

of peace, chewing

his cud along

with his cows,

and evening is

pomp and night

is the diplomat

from far-off lands.

Alone he sleeps

in a house

Horace would love,

and his morning is

bright as the dawn

of sailors,

his world

is all peace,

all mornings,

he ploughs mornings,

innocent as time.