All day the noise of traffic fills the full
three hundred and sixty degrees of the horizon –
the edge of my personal flat earth, although
all is still, here among the trees
in the centre of this soft estate
no-one else has use for.

In between the traffic surge
the birds, inscrutable, still sing
and, after sunset, headlights shining
through the trees cast wheeling shadows
though later on those worlds falls silent, dark:
the trees dream of ancient forests and I sleep.



Dominic Rivron
Picture Nick Victor




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