Diane Jackman

Moving into town

Through thirty years
my waking window
drew my eye
to Channons Wood
across the changing fields.
Blue wheat lumpen sugar beet
fragrant beans in May

acrid rape spiking barley
assaulted the senses.
Cloud shadows raced
across the fields
bare brown after ploughing.
And all above, the open sky.

Now my sky is cut about,
enclosed by hard edges,
mullion and transom
chop the light,
angled roof lines slice
this sky into a square root.

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