He turned back here. Anyone would. After
The long romantic journey from the North
To be faced with this. A ‘So what ?’ sort of place,
A place that, like a mirror, makes you see.

A scrubby ridge, impassive river, and beyond,
The flats of Middle England. History waited
To absorb him. Parliaments, dynasties, empires,
Lay beyond these turnip fields. Not what he wanted.

He could have done it. The German Royals
Had packed their bags, there was a run
On the Bank of England, London stood open as a jelly.
Nobody could have stopped him. This place did.

And the hurricanes that blew his cause from Moidart
In a bluster of kilts and claymores and bright red hair
Faded at Swarkestone as they turned their backs,
Withdrawing into battle, slaughter, song.