A joy to look,
On brief English air,
That rolls on by,
In grey greens and browns,
The curt nods of trees,
The neat standing grass,
The wizened oaks that grin:
"Moornin'"
And holler from a friendlier world.

Sore throat,
Feels like soaring dragons come to perch,
On my tongue and slivering down,
Wisps of flame,
And coldest pain,
Paling tunes to mock the sick days,
Even then the pale army marches,
Devouring virus and bacteria alike,
Sending protein missiles and disarming toxins,
One day such a thing shall pass,
For now he watches with love,
On this pale army of his.