Enoch Powell: First Poems: XXIII) The Convict

XXIII) The Convict

So soon the summer comes again,

And still I languish here,

My ankle fastened with the chain

I wore last year.

Now green and golden stand the trees

That other folk may see;

And warm and scented springs the breeze

To touch the free.

On hills I shall not climb, the haze

Of evening lingers red,

And grey at morning gleam the ways

I shall not tread.

For all the merry summer through,

As dead men’s bones,

I still shall sit and penance do,

A-breaking stones.