Jerusalem
His face is mild, as mild as Elgar chords
Set down on paper, or a late June day
In Gloucestershire, as mild as sleeping lords
In Parliament. His young beard’s a display
Of masculinity, or maybe just
A statement of his academic bent.
That’s more in line with what he seems, a bust
In Oxford of a long gone don who went
As mild as English Breakfast when his time
Came. Mild in muted stripes his slim shirt makes
Up gentle harmony, a sort of rhyme
Like late June air above blue English lakes.
He’s studying crusading English knights,
Their long gone hacking, bleeding, ruthless fights.