PICKINGS

Poetry from NHI publications

WHERE THE PICNIC WAS
Where we made the fire In the summer time Of branch and briar On the hill to the sea, I slowly climb Through winter mire, And scan and trace The forsaken place Quite readily. Now a cold wind blows, And the grass is gray, But the spot still shows As a burnt circle — aye, And stick-ends, charred, Still strew the sward Whereon I stand, Last relic of the band Who came that day! Yes, I am here Just as last year, And the sea breathes brine From its strange straight line Up hither, the same As when we four came. — But two have wandered far From this grassy rise Into urban roar Where no picnics are, And one — has shut her eyes For evermore.
THOMAS HARDY

WHERE THE PICNIC WAS

Where we made the fire
In the summer time
Of branch and briar
On the hill to the sea,
I slowly climb
Through winter mire,
And scan and trace
The forsaken place
Quite readily.

Now a cold wind blows,
And the grass is gray,
But the spot still shows
As a burnt circle — aye,
And stick-ends, charred,
Still strew the sward
Whereon I stand,
Last relic of the band
Who came that day!

Yes, I am here
Just as last year,
And the sea breathes brine
From its strange straight line
Up hither, the same
As when we four came.
— But two have wandered far
From this grassy rise
Into urban roar
Where no picnics are,
And one — has shut her eyes
For evermore.

THOMAS HARDY

from
Passions & Phantoms

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Hardy's poems are read on the CD by Michael Bangerter, with incidental music composed and played by the reader.
Michael Bangerter is a tutor with The Writer's Ark

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This page last updated: 18th November 2006.