And all of England laid out like a park,
slanting dusk, high-rises in orange light –
out to fields, violence-rendered houses,
yells of madness or boredom, or both.

Blessed was the rain that rained on this place.
But it’s gone now, falls as sand or debris.
It’s over, who cares – I love the pylons,
motorways into long tail-backs, hidden

intricacies, pointless diversions. And
that’s everything you could ever have –
how to catch it is still unknown. Perhaps
fallen light, old music, thought are enough.

If I was a poet I’d see an England
flag on that public housing from the
Westgate roof terrace and another
on Oxford Castle. I’d laugh at some

garden leered over by bored diners,
then write loftily on identity as
cyclopean geometry that is fatal.
Lucky I’m not.


Paul Sutton

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