By Ivor Gurney
What things I have missed today, I know very well
But the seeing of them each new time is miracle,
Nothing between Bredon and Dursley has
Anyday yesterday’s precise unpraised grace.
The changed light, or curve changed mistily
Coppice now bold cut: yesterday’s mystery.
A sense of mornings, once seen, for ever gone,
It’s own for ever; alive, dead, my possession