the hawthorn hedges, kerb sides
of the fields. trees full of life
now black with damp and rain
I watch him melt into the view
as the woods migrate from the trees,
leaves let go, their colours on the floor
this is his time, perching on the horizon
keeping away the light as prey run, fly
away. his feathers are just scraping the sky
when he takes flight, not wanting to wave
back the sun. he waits on the hawthorn
in his long brown cape, not really alive
until he flies.
She brought him up at the top
of a hill, allowing him to see the
She took him down in her car
as they saw the doors of people
But today he is still up there
his hands in her pockets,
doing the things she cannot do anymore.
He is jailed, believing coming to work
makes him free, but her tongue
His time is governed by her hand
passing numbers he does not know
does not tick tock.
Spoken words now in the carpets
crumbling to pieces like skin dust.
Windows agape, dead mouthed.
Paint flicking off in winds, tiles
slipping in rain. Doors aching to be
opened, locked, left ajar.
All footsteps gone, lost in the sun
dial of life. Swiped away when
The building now waits to be buried,
name forgotten as the gravestones
of the people who had once slipped there.
you can tell they
are getting older
more leaves than
the year lost
another ring added
more creaks to the joints
the garden is covered
in loss, leaves left
to the wind, to be blown
away, another forgotten year
our soil is just dead meat
crumbling of the earth
miles away the concrete
and tarmac suck out the land
taking away hands we need
once vibrant hills now carry
lagging behind tractors
stone buildings sink into the view
barns vacant of touch hold
the winds for comfort
farms are just pens for lost people.