An itinerant worker returns from a civil war that never quite happened, back through time to their partner, and on their way they see things in England that cause thoughts to occur. In sequence the field repeats, each one slightly differently. In each field a different voice, a different group. Maybe a village, or a city, or a bird. A chaos of significance.
I sit and play around with you
like a dolphin enjoying the
water round a quiet ship – ice
soon takes the water and I leave.
A buttercup has been crushed here
all its petals are gone. I want
to find the key to unlock you –
not to know you, just to see a
smile break. Then a dog wanders up
oh holy dog. Accomplishes
with presence what I had failed at
attempting to stand on my head!
Sophie the dog gets scratched and I
see George Trakl’s pastoral field
scattered with corpses and blue mist
over the nebulae of grass
evaporate under our field
borrowed here on Hampstead Heath, sun
is altered and wizened by the
clouds that pile like a rock slide.
The entire sky is the open eye
of god, examining us
up close. And so few conclusions
are drawn. The eye begins to close