Ancient Of Days

It's Epsom but could pass for Epping,         New Forest or Dumbarton Wood.         There's ivy of the thickest         English sort not commonly         found in America; sprigs         growing across open ground         mantling it.         Shiny to the eye, soft encircling         the touch, I am reminded of blue waters,         green grass Blake's Ancient of Days:         an old man's beard stepping from the trees,         Spanish Moss so unearthly it covers a         southern forest.         There are tendrils in herbal potions of unbroken lips that move         across both dew and clover.         I see Druids reciting psalms, weaving ivy along garlands         of oak, the incantation set before a British lake -         briar baskets carrying the trusting dead;         food offerings transversing the waters.         The ivy calls to mind all these things,         just a sprig held tightly yet aromatic beyond imagining,         my timorous English settlers seen thru a spate of leaves         clutching their holly on Roanoke island.