Achilles last stand amongst the corpses, buried hastily and while in full retreat. From whom there, inches below his feet, is left to blame?

So tired. Crashed out - my body is still churning over that sickness begotten at Porto Pizza. But I have ended today back at St Oswald's Pastoral Centre on the left bank of the Eskdale Valley, just outside Sleights, around 4 miles from the North Sea. Now I am in the Hillside self-catering block. The previous visit was my 43rd birthday on the 2nd February when it snowed heavily and I was forced to walk down to here from Fylingdales.

It is somewhat tranquillity today: the distant sound of a prop plane, the hoot-choochoo of a steam locomotive, a very far away sawing or strimming and the call of a mighty bull in the field.

The Centre is busy with a gardening retreat - keeping this plot pristine, godly, manicured; "surely I have made this only Eden yet more perfectly ordered that it pleases you to let me into Heaven?" - which must be a land of perpetual clearing, cleaning, arranging, straightening, weed killer, slug pellets and cups of tea.

While I accept food is a necessity of existence I deny planting flowers over a patch, where "weeds" once grew, necessary at all: are not dandelions, daisies and buttercups flowers chosen by Mother Nature to grown on this very spot? Like it is often said "one mans heaven is another mans hell" but without real acceptance of warts (and all) your time is going to repeat again in Samsara.

Currently my blistered ankles are all too alive; can I walk in sandals? Oh dear across the valley the sound of a car alarm and fearful siren momentarily tarnishes the "ball against willow" peaceful simplicity hidden about here (and an asthmatic donkey and flustering pheasant).

To be hidden is truly beyond England's green sickly feeling.

Achilles last stand amongst the corpses, buried hastily and while in full retreat.
From whom there, inches below his feet, is there left to blame?

Pullman carriages
And a steam locomotive
Passes in the valley,
Below my window,
Fixed in time, when
There was
No running water
Cholera,
Typhoid,
Consumption,
Soot,
Pea-soupers,
Grime,
Chimney sweeps,
More, I want more.
Workhouses,
Six days a week
In the mill
Or
Down the pit.
And William Blake.

And yet more of the whims of the elite
Pushing us to break our backs, doing
Work which allowed them to promenade.
Grosvenor Square, Alexander Gardens, Victoria Embankment,
With nanny or
Governess in
Tow
Proud of their legacy.
Six to a bed, no love between
A parent and offspring
Because there isn't
Enough money
To feed
The disease
Ripping the throat
Of a land robbed
Poor.

The good old days?
Three bags full.
Ours is not to reason why,
But ours is to do and die.
Whips out, chains on, water cooled.
Maxim at the ready?
Shoot! Kill, not till you see the whites ...
Bring out your dead ...
God save the King
Fuck the minions.

The (too) many have, really,
Been fooled by the (too) few.

Given by the King, Kaiser, Tsar, Tyrant.
Debased grubby fingers
Polished where blood is splattered
A nickel silver shilling;
A measure of stupidity
And a means to make a postmortem payment
To the autocratic ferry man.

Once the pounding howitzers have stopped; dead.
And the smell of freshly turned soil and cordite,
Then the petrification whistle blows
Beckoned across the silent land of death:
"Bayonets on; fools!"
Now march in an orderly procession to your own funeral;
There the earth is freshly dug, ready
To be fed marrow where once only animals
Dung was ploughed;
Not rich enough for these
Seldom seen tatties!

A Sopwith Camel chases
A steam locomotive back up the valley and
A Vickers heavy machine
Gun chiming back down the years
To where once a cloth cap was doffed
In accord with the barbarian order of things.

Ceased fire. Peace is over. Poor boys!
No one kissed you good night
As the guns heaved their last convulsion
Get up and dance for the reaper
Pushed on by the horrible
Unhinged
Orifice class.