Barrow

Barrow

In the hush of the Downs, where the heather sighs low,
A grass‑clad swell rises – a silent barrow,
A tumulus dressed in moss and thyme,
Where Neolithic hands once piled stone and time.

Beneath the loam, a chamber waits,
Stone‑lintelled, cool, where ancient rites
Whisper through the chalk‑white night,
Echoes of bronze, of fire, of light.

The barrow guards the bones of those
Who walked the ridge when woolly winds blew,
Their amber beads, their flint‑knapped blades,
Now cradled deep in earth’s soft shades.

Yet wander further to the village green,
Where a different barrow leans – a wheel‑barrow, bright and keen,
Its oak‑shaft worn by many a hand,
Its rubber tyre kissing the loam‑soft land.

It carries compost, seedlings, dreams,
A humble steed in garden streams,
From cottage plot to allotment row,
It labours, faithful, to and fro.

Whether raised for chieftain’s rest
Or for a child’s first gardening quest,
The barrow stands – in earth or steel –
A vessel of what we conceal
And what we sow, in British soil,
A timeless tribute to our toil.