From Yorkshire

I am tired of England,
Of Winston and sixty-six,
Less a nation than a default setting,
No thing stands for it.

Welund made a spinning top, gifted it a godling,
Older than the fall of Rome, the ambitious youngling,
Wound in all the kingdoms with a cord around the core.

Nineteen twenty-one, point placed,
Nineteen forty-seven, twine tugged,
Nineteen fifty-six, spinning,
Nineteen ninety-nine, spinning.

In a small souvenir shop standing in York,
Flat caps and roses, 
Keyrings and sweets,
Where a Brigante sat watching her fire,
Wake-addled and weary, 
Her child would not sleep,
Shopkeeper stops, 
Sentence unsaid,
Hearing.

Elmet, Bryneich, Dere.

Headshake and smile, 
She slips back to work,
Blue paper bag for a postcard and pin.

In gritstone towns,
And North Sea bays,
We turn off the telly,
With tired disgust.

To live, 
A land must have three things:
A shape, 
People, 
And a dream.

I am tired of England,
No longer dreaming.

Image: Ilkley Moor Yorkshire England UK by Geoge Hodan (CC0 1.0)