My father mentioned
once, apropos of nothing,
that in this place
he’d lived in thirty years
this view
was his favourite.

Over the churchyard wall
across five miles of fields and hedges
trees so dense no house or road breaks in
and ending in a high green hill
its slopes soft now but ever scarred
by centuries of working.

And still, we never sat, we two
on this old weathered bench
warmed by an autumn sun
and gazed on it together.
And now, I think, perhaps
we never will.


5 thoughts on “Outlook

    • It came out more melancholy than I intended, really; my parents moved away from the village 7-8 years ago, but I still bike round that area at least once a week and love it very much. They’re getting on a bit and don’t like travelling, so I can’t foresee a time when we’ll be there together again; hence the piece. My dad spent a lot of the time at the church, as he was the assistant vicar; he’s officially retired but at 79 he’s still involved in matters ecclesiastical where they’re living now. It’s also an elegy for this part of the world, which is increasingly being dug up and built on; not sure how much longer I’ll be able to look out on the country as it is today. N.

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