Friday, 30 October 2015


Days when the sky
was all scudding cloud
and space –

the rate of climb
of those pioneers
like Mum’s dad,
flying flimsy string
and canvas contraptions –

were there again
when you stretched
full length on the hill,
lay back and thought
of eglantine –
was that the name?
– and thick masks
of colour back home,
the profligate spill
of climbing plants,
reaching for the sky
and above you
the space
of scudding clouds.

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