The long-necked cranes still strut beside the docks
And morning mists still moan on the Humber.
Slow breezes lisp and whisper on the banks
Of Barmy Drain and tease the trees forever.
And the patchoulied lectures linger here
As mystic traces in my mind.
This is a place to be a visitor
And we must go. But how the leaving binds!
There is a mystery here. A salt taste.
Ask the sycamores why they stay, ravelled
Roots clenched in clay. "It is the proper place,"
They say. "This is the proper clay to hold."
And we have had our tour, have lifted stones
And camped within the fastness of their homes.