I’ll choose a boggy piece of ground
with mosses and with sedge
and build a dry stone wall around,
or lay a hazel hedge,
and on one side a five-barred gate
to let the breezes through;
on either hand the gateposts straight,
a blackthorn and a yew.
The other fields in use there
are green and tamed and neat.
Here’s dandelion and dock and tare,
moor grass and meadowsweet.
And I’ll fill it full of asbo boys,
and asbo grannies too,
the weeds and trees won’t mind the noise,
the air’s already blue.
They’ll make a fire-surround with bricks,
the old girls’ll have a brew,
then build them dens of leaves and sticks
as children used to do.
The lads will pull their iPods out
to listen to the birds,
each lady leaning on a lout
alive, and lost for words.