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?