Beyond the orchard and plain church,
escaping some fury of my own invention,
I’d be crossing the road to the railway station
to the edge of a wide, familiar view:
uncut wheatfield extending to stands
of remnant Victorian planting –
oaks and cedars which at one time lined
the driveway of those misnamed Towers.
How to decipher mechanised pastoral
under Luton Airport flight paths
might well have proved distraction –
in another emptying village, pale blues
and yellows in an overgrown courtyard
are plants which, had I given attention
to what was growing among the cornstalks
I might have been able to name.
