There are cracks so deep in Weaver’s Field
the farmer can push his arm in up to
his elbow. Even in the keepered woods,
laurel has wilted. Gnarly field maples
are almost leafless. Skeins of black smoke drift
from the field fires at Enham Alamein.
him coming home from work
in damp, sooty uniform,
and the alarm bell that rang
in my childhood home
whenever he was needed
Towering piles of cumulus sail north
like galleons. When it comes, it darkens
the down to an unfamiliar moorland brown.
With it the strong scent of ammonia
from sheep’s urine. Reanimated,
mingled with damp dust and baked grass.
From The rain has come, and suddenly the land looks (and smells) different.
Verbatim Poetry 