Three Poems

Pluckley

The long light on the Scots pines on the bank above the house
Makes a grand show of it, like this was Africa or something
And not England.

A single cloud can cast a hundred-mile shadow over the Downs
At the right time of day, like it was a Roman legion’s standard topped
With a white owl.

And set up at sunset in defiance of everything, and the long job ahead,
At a camp on the hill’s edge, like a proof of existence or
A spoken line.

You could walk from here to Devon in twenty days, and stop
At all the rivers on the way, like someone determined to swim
In all rivers.

Or you could stop right here, and build this place facing south,
Dig out and fill the pond, like somewhere to grow walnuts and grapes
After the gold rush.
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