The Field


I like a line between sky and land that curves

Like the surface of the earth, with ribbon lines

Of harvested corn, regimented, straight rising, rising

I like the clouds to be painted with a steady hand

In shapes magical of heads, and bodies, birds and beasts.

The sun warm on my back, as I face north to look at London.

That curve, that line between the earth and sky draws me on,

Before it I stand I know not its end or where it goes?

I imagine a world suspended on long strings from blue canvas.

But this is a moment. As I walk. I think,

Why would I want to leave it all behind?



Epsom Downs