a smell like apple bruises and horse chestnut shells.
A smell of pure energy.
back
Your father claimed this ground
would grow five-pound notes
if you planted a shilling.
That I would like to see.
back
Flatness | straight lines | a manmade geometry.
The sound of metal on soil // the sky above
This is the landscape you I we grew up in.
This is the landscape which grew us which made us.
back
The sea wants to be here. we shouldn’t be surprised when
will give to that
Our engineering gives way before the sea’s desire.
back
You didn’t say that. That’s not what you said
back
to name these places
The words we’ve been given by our ancestors have no poetry.
Our waterways are called drains,
not rivers or streams or brooks or burns:
Thirty Foot Drain
Sixteen Foot Drain
(and the closest to grandeur, this) Hundred Foot Drain
our farms named for anonymity: Lower Field Farm
Middle Field Farm
Sixteen Foot Farm
People don’t come here because they’ve been